Those Who Favour Fire
by Artanis
Summary: "Who was the Champion? Not who you think she was, that's who..." An aggressive, uncouth apostate with a special hatred in her heart for her fellow mages. Bitchy Hawke abounds, you have been warned! Eventual F!HawkexRival!Anders, but also some HawkexFenris
1. The Real Hawke

**Author's Note:** Yeah, another fic…I should work on my other stuff but I couldn't resist writing bits of my Hawke. She's…different? That's one way of putting it, I guess. Basically, I played through DA a few times with a moderately 'nice' alignment before getting the idea for a Hawke who wasn't just randomly a bitchy character, but who came with all of her own issues. An extremely sarcastic Hawke who is not the heroine everyone later makes her out to be(Good ol' Varric and his glossing of petty details :P !). Also think the Fenris friendmance/ Anders rivalmance is the best thing since sliced bread. I edited out a titanic amount of angst with the help of my fellow party members/beta's of the LOLs: Delphinium(a totally awesome dwarven tank also known on FF net. as DamascusRibbons) and one William Cousland, wielding the mighty greatsword of Crack Plot Ideas. That being said, this may have some crack, but it shouldn't be too cracky. There's a little angst, a little fluff. Loose chronological order…

* * *

><p>"Seeker, let be straight with you: if you're looking for the Champion because you think she can help you you're wrong." Looking at Cassandra Pentagast, most people would piss there pants. I'm really not that worried, she clearly isn't planning on killing me. Chantry Seekers can get away with a lot of shit but they're not without a conscience. She just wanted a story and I, Varric Tethras, am a master of good story telling. It probably helps that the story of Kirkwall's 'Champion' is one of my all-time favourites.<p>

Though everyone thinks I exaggerate the amount of drinking that went on. I don't.

"I know she can help me!" Nothing like the righteousness of someone who believes their actions have the backing of the Maker. Though I have to give Cassandra some credit; if I hadn't been there and experienced the whole thing myself, I might be inclined to think Streyga Hawke was my best bet for rallying templars or whatever else.

"Even if she can-" _She's definitely not going to._ Hawke had always been in it to win it, to the Void with almost everyone else. She'd had two moods: Cheeky and royally pissed off. A strange penchant for collecting torn trousers to the point of abandoning more valuable loot. She couldn't cook, bake and/or reliably create anything but chaos. The short attention span had lead to many more accidents with pyromancy than any mage I'd ever met. Every title she earned, every achievement was almost always an accident. The story I could tell Cassandra was not the story of the brave, honorable heroine and I wasn't exactly eager to disappoint the angry looking Seeker, even if I was ninety-nine percent sure she wasn't about to kill me.

"Start talking, dwarf."

"Right, I will. I just…" I shifted slightly in my chair and looked down at the manuscript I was holding. _Though an apostate, the Champion of Kirkwall was a tall, fair-haired woman of astounding character originally hailing from Ferelden. She showed impressive bravery and moral fiber in the face of the Qunari-_

"Well, my work here is done! This book tells you everything-"

"The book is a bunch of propagandized bullshit. I need the truth." Cassandra plunked herself down in the chair across from me, drawing her blade and setting it on her lap. You had to hand it to the Seeker, she knew how to send a message

"The truth hurts, Seeker. But if you want it, I'll give it to you. Just promise me you wont kill me if you hear something you don't like…" A dagger buried itself in the wood of the chair just above my head, "Alright, alright! I'll tell you!"

And without further adieu(and with very little embellishment from your's truly), I give you the tale of Kirkwall's Champion.

* * *

><p>"That was mean, sister." Streyga Hawke blinked her startling blue eyes against the blazing sunlight that graced the streets outside Gamlen's hovel, stretching her neck luxuriously and smiling back over her shoulder. Mhm, it was a good day to be a Ferelden in Kirkwall. And shouting and threatening Gamlen had filled her with a comfortable sense of satisfaction that only conflict could stoke. Carver frowned at her and folded his arms over his muscle-bound chest.<p>

"That's life, Carver. And Gamlen's a prick." She purred, brushing a hand through her long, snow white hair and sweeping it into a severe bun at the back of her head, two tendrils escaping to frame her face. She pulled the cowl up over her head and adjusted it so it shielded her eyes. Making sure her staff was secure in it's sheath over her shoulders she trotted down the stone steps, listening to her younger brother's whinging.

"If it wasn't for him we'd never have gotten into the city! We owe him-"

"Maybe you owe him, Carver. For justifying the poor little brother act…I don't owe him a thing." She goaded lazily as they crossed the square in front of the Hanged Man, heading into the bizarre. The clout across the back of the head came as a surprise and she stumbled and clutched the back of her neck, turning on him in shock. The anger swiftly followed at the sight of Carver's firm, furious stance.

"What the Void was that for?" The injury was more to her pride than anything else, Maker knows Carver could have taken her head off if he'd punched her full force.

"Don't mock me! You have no idea what it's like playing second fiddle to _you_! The careless, insensitive, conceited older _female _sibling!" He spit aggressively, glowering down at her.

"This again? Maker's breath, Carver. Grow up." She stepped down into the bizarre courtyard, reeling slightly.

"Fine! How about we have it out, right here! See who should have been relied on to lead the bloody family!" He shouted, his fists balled at his sides. Lowtown residents were starting to take notice. Streyga felt the fury rise and boil in her throat, her head, her chest. Like the roar of a fire, the tension that had been building for days now finally brought to a head.

"Oh go ahead and lead, brother! I certainly won't stop you…" She turned her back again, her body shaking and quivering. She felt abnormally cold under the glow of the sun, her belly and head aching in tandem. Her pale skin was coated in a sheen of sweat and she started to quicken her pace. She needed to go to the Gallows…the Tranquil there typically sold a bit of lyrium on the side. Just a little and she'd feel better-

"Little Hawke and Hawke, causing a stir! Why don't we just tone things down a little so that Aveline doesn't need to-" Varric had just emerged from the Hanged Man pub, the sun glinting off the gold that adorned his throat. Hawke blinked a bit of sweat out of her eyes and saw Isabela slink up from behind him, hands on her hips and her face amused.

"How can you just ignore your responsibility after all that's happened?" Carver'd stepped up closer than she remembered him being, towering over her. Something in her twisted at the invasion of her space and she stood on tip toe to sneer at him, swaying like a cobra ready to strike.

"I'm warning you, _little _brother. Don't test me." His hands came down on her shoulders and shoved her back hard enough that she stumbled slightly. _Oh, you sniveling little gutter shite-!_

"How could you just let Bethany die?" He shrieked across the bizarre, Carver's words finally hit home. Let. Bethany. _Die._ "You should have been the one to take that blow, not her! Not my twin!"

She stepped into his space, catching his hands with enough force magic to prevent him pushing her down again. His eyes widened with fury but he grinned down at her viciously, one lip curled back into a fighting snarl. She mimicked his facial expression, deaf to Varric's soothing words of warning.

"Your survivor's guilt isn't my problem, Carver." She pushed with the force magic, catapulting him backwards so that he landed squarely on his arse. Hawke cracked her knuckles and grinned as Carver found his feet. "So, let's get this over with so I can get some lyrium for my scrambled eggs, shall we?"

* * *

><p>Anders was walking sedately out of Loreen's clinic when the dye merchant's stall beside him exploded in a fount of purple and green powders. His survival instincts kicked in and he threw himself under the trinket sellers table without a second thought, nearly ousting a poor woman from her hiding spot.<em> Maker, this can be one of two things: please let this just be bandits and not…he heard that familiar, battle-hardened laughter. Hawke<em>. And she was using magic in the bizarre! Maker curse that foolish woman, she'd better have had a good reason to-

"Come on, get up! That's it, little brother! Come on, take the fight to the enemy!" No, of course not. Of course she'd be risking exposure for the sake of a sibling quarrel. Carver barreled past the table he was ensconced under like a charging bronto, roaring his rage at his older sister. Anders bolted out from beneath the table and raced up the steps to where Varric and Isabela were watching the proceedings with grave looks on their faces.

"What the hell is going on?" He hissed angrily, inserting himself between them and glancing up in time to witness Hawke receive a fierce punch into her ribcage. Her laugh cut off as the breath whooshed out of her lungs and she slammed her palm into her brothers chest in an effort to launch him off her. He clung and the force of her own magic sent them both tumbling across the bizarre, kicking and punching and scratching at one another.

"Carver's having a tantrum, Hawke's dealing with it." Varric shrugged, counting out some copper in the palm of his hand. Anders eyed him with disbelief, jostled by the men and women behind him trying to get a better look at the combatants.

"Are you taking bets on them!" He sputtered indignantly, wincing at the sound of shattering timbers as Carver landed on a merchants table.

"Why? You want to put some money on Hawke? I'll give you three to one odds…" The dwarf nodded and thanked a man as he placed some gold in his outstretched palm.

"On which-" Anders recovered and glowered at the two rogues furiously. "No! This is horribly dangerous and I'm going to put a stop to it-"

"Easy, Tiger." Isabela placed a placating hand on his arm and shook her head. "She's not ready to be talked down. Besides I haven't placed my bet-"

"I wasn't going to talk to her about it." Varric gave him a sound tug on his belt and shook his head firmly.

"Don't, Blondie. You'll only make it worse." Anders glared ferociously at the Hawke siblings as they circled each other, Streyga limping slightly. There was blood crusting all down her face and neck from her bloody nose, glistening in the sunlight. She was grinning savagely, one of her eyes swollen shut. Mages just weren't built to go head to head in a physical fight without the aid of their magic. Carver lunged forward and she dodged the ham-fisted blow, capering neatly only to cry out as her injured leg failed her and stagger awkwardly to the side.

"This is stupid-"

"What is it? Has Isabela started dueling again?" The soft voice pricked everyone's ears with it's faint dalish lilt, it's owner slipping between the crowd to stand beside him. "Oh dear…"

"They're going to kill each other and bring the templar's down on us!" Anders snapped furiously, appealing to the chuckling dwarf beside him.

"Relax, Blondie. What do you think we have rooms in the Hanged Man for?"

"That's not the point! It's bloody selfish and irresponsible…" Anders trailed off when he saw Varric shrug helplessly. Isabela slid a companionable arm around the mage's waist, her sultry grin bright with mischief.

"That's our Hawke, take her or leave her." The pirate rogue watched Carver land another punch and winced. "Come on, sweet thing! Dodge a few of…oh, mages…"

"Varric-"

"You two can hide out with me…besides, Hawke's doing fine. You have to be crafty to notice she's casting at all-" A fireball consumed a refuse wagon five feet from where Carver was standing, Streyga Hawke's eyes glowing like the embers of a forge and flames licking her wrists to the elbow.

"COME ON THEN! I'll light you up like the piers at Ostagar! After all, it's not like I'd be robbing you of your looks!" Carver narrowly avoided a few fist-sized fireballs, yelping like an injured mabari.

"Maker's breath! Now will you stop them? Before she burns down the bloody bizarre…On second thought, wait, don't! I bet being thrown in the Circle'd do her some good." Merril made a soft noise of upset, covering her mouth with her hands and casting Anders a horrified look. There was a battle cry as Carver tore across the bizarre roaring like a bear. Streyga dropped into the aggressive stance of a battle mage, magical flame rippling over her spine like the mane of a jungle cat as it writhed and crackled over her arms.

"Hawke!" Merril shrieked, her voice tearing through a few octaves as she struggled to be heard over the din. Hawke's head swiveled at the sound of the dalish mage's squeak, the fire coating her arms dampening somewhat. "Stop! Or I'll…I'll-! I'LL TURN THE ARAVEL AROUND!"

There was a brief moment of puzzlement on her blood caked, rage suffused face before Carver plowed into her and sent her sprawling. She managed to throw up a hand and fling him over her head with force-magic even as she slammed back into the hard, sandy colored stone, catapulting him over her prone body and into the stairs leading to the upper courtyard. He flew over the heads of the spectators before landing amongst them with screams of terror and disgruntled bellowing.

"Bloody void, Daisy. What did you say?"

"It's something the Keeper used to tell us when we were misbehaving…" The Dalish elf looked appropriately chastised, wringing her hands as the crowd made haste to disperse.

"I've decided what I'm going to call this story, Rivaini." Varric was speaking to Isabela even as Anders shoved his way down the stairs, eager to reach Hawke before the templar's peeled her up off the ground: "The Day Little Hawke Junior Learned to Fly."

Anders elbowed his way past the audience that was fast making itself scarce, some rushing off to inform a guard that was no doubt already on it's way. _Meredith herself is probably leading them down here so she can personally execute an alleged blood mage._ Anders bitterly wondered why he was bothering as he finally spotted Hawke, sprawled in a small puddle of her own blood. She was pushing herself up to her knees with no small amount of difficulty. He grabbed her by the shoulders and quickly bustled her into an alley he would have thought twice about otherwise, shoving her into a narrow alcove half-hidden behind a stinking heap of garbage. She slumped to an awkward sitting position, wheezing through the dried blood and clutching her skull. Anders squirmed into the space next to her, their shoulder's wedged together almost painfully.

"You stupid, selfish-" He felt her head flop onto his shoulder, out-cold. _Maker preserve me, I'm crouched in a stinking alleyway with an unconscious female apostate who I barely know and am fairly sure I despise for her lack of morals and mage pride bleeding all over my robes._ Up until this point, Anders had repeatedly stated the mantra 'At least it's better than the Wardens' in an attempt to keep himself sane. "You don't even have the common decency to remain conscious for tirade."

Grunting, he shifted his position in the cramped area so she was draped over his chest. He couldn't heal her, just in case there were templars close. They'd immediately sense the magic and have them both trapped like rats. He fished a healing potion out of a hidden pocket inside his coat and cradled her bloodied face against his shoulder. Gingerly, he slipped a finger under her swollen lip and emptied the vial down her throat, rubbing vigorously to encourage her to swallow. She wasn't too badly off, Carver had been pulling his punches for the most part. Still, the needless damage made Anders feel mildly anxious. _It's just healer-patient concern, that's all._

"Come on, you stubborn witch. Wake up and-" She coughed feebly, some of the precious liquid dribbling down her chin before she choked it down. Her right hand clutched convulsively at the feathers across his shoulder, it's knuckles skinned and shiny with the reddish pinkness of scraped and broken flesh. It would heal within the next few minutes that it took for the potion to take affect. What was important was that the tonic allay the symptoms of the concussion.

"Carver is a son of a bitch." Came the quiet admonition, murmured against the stitching of his great coat. Anders snorted, one arm slung awkwardly around her knees to keep her from stretching her legs out into the alley.

"You share a mother, Hawke. That's like saying Leandra is a bitch."

"How do you know my mother?" The earnestness in her voice was unmistakable and Anders made a soft sputtering sound to shush her. Concussed, she was far more manageable than she would have been otherwise. Which was a blessing, considering-

"Well, well. Unlikely love birds." Isabela's sultry voice was unmistakable even as his heart stopped at her sudden appearance.

"Maker, Isabela! I nearly attacked you-"

"Shush." The pirate rogue placed a finger to his lips and spread a threadbare blanket over them.

"Where the bloody hell did you find this? It's probably full of diseases-"

"There's gratitude for you. I dashed back to my room at the Hanged Man for this-" She tucked the blanket in around Hawke's shoulders and straightened.

"Then I _know _it's diseased-" He grumbled, casting the raggedy fabric a disdainful look. Hawke snuggled up under his chin, still smelling of blood and yawning like a kitten. _Appearances can be deceiving…she's just like Mahariel…only Mahariel was definitely meaner._

"Shut it! The templar's are not twenty feet away…just cower under here and pretend to be sick refugees! They'll leave you alone and then I'll come back and tell you when it's safe." Anders clamped his mouth shut as Isabela and her ample bust disappeared back into the alley. He sighed long-sufferingly and glaring down at his burden.

"I have half a mind to give you to the templars, do you know that? Maybe then you'd stop quoting their bloody rhetoric." He muttered into her ears, wincing as her long fingernails scraped at his collarbone.

"We could share a cozy little jail cell."

"Shut up."

* * *

><p>And they were still fighting four hours later, sitting in the cramped confines of Isabela's unused closet. The only thing that had really changed was the additional presence of Merril and the moldering chest Hawke was perched on, a delightful pattern of purple bruises spread all over her face and arms. Other places, too, but she hadn't had the privacy or the care to take a full inventory of her injuries. She was currently dozing off with her head on one stone wall and her knees tucked up to her chest.<p>

"Hawke. How can you sleep at a time like this? Don't you even feel the vaguest bit guilty that you've caused-"

"Oh shush, Anders. You nag worse than Leandra. If you don't have the presence of mind and the strength of body to hide from the templars, then you bloody well shouldn't be an apostate in the first place." She muttered against the wall, curling her aching body tighter into a protective ball.

"I wonder if you'd be so cavalier if it was _Merril _who got captured? Or _yourself_?" Hawke scoffed at Anders glower and sat up fully, glaring down at him.

"Alright, show of hands: Who here has been captured at least once by the templars?" Merril looked puzzled as she leaned up against the door, shaking her head.

"I've never even been questioned by a templar. At least, not that I can remember. None of them have ever accused me of being a mage. I think-" Hawke interrupted the dalish elf's tangent, rolling her eyes and returning her gaze to Anders.

"Yes, the only one of us who's ever had trouble is speaking from bloody experience. You're a rubbish hider, Anders. Now, move away from the door. I need a good stiff drink." She stood up, and reached for the latch, she had it partially open before a booted foot slammed it shut, tearing the sharp latch through her fingers. Anders folded his arms over his chest, shaking his head.

"Are you insane? You can't go out there…they'll spot you immediately!" Streyga bit her lip hard and counted to five, quelling the pyromancy that made the one lamp in the tiny space flare enthusiastically. Warm blood seeped out of the scratch across her fingers and palm and she felt a vast, powerful blackness crowding at the edge of her mind. _Don't use it, don't strike him. Just…relax._

"So?" She murmured, raising one eyebrow and stepping on his ankle. He jerked it out from under her foot and she pulled the door open and slipped out in one easy movement.

"So? Maker, woman! Do you want to end up in the Circle?" Anders pathetic argument faded behind her as she strode through Isabela's suite-snagging a kerchief to wrap her hair and face in-and ventured out into the corridor. She took a right at the door to Varric's and trotted down the stairs into the tavern proper.

Anders was right about one thing: The Hanged Man was crawling with templars, the dim light cast by the eclectic assemblage of cheap torch holders and hanging candelabras glinted harshly off their armor. Far less somber with some ale in their bellies, the men were raucously taking part in a game of Wicked Grace. Hawke wove her way between the many patrons, some she recognized and some new additions. The presence of so many lawmen was clearly making the regulars et al. uncomfortable and she carefully but casually made her way to the bar.

"Hawke, sweet thing." Isabela greeted Streyga with a smile and placed a tankard in front of her. "Living on the edge I see."  
>"Maker, Isabela, I'm well over the edge." She took three steady swallows and smacked the empty cup down on the bit of ragged wood that served as the bar counter. The pirate woman's eyebrows arched and she gave a low whistle.<p>

"Take it easy, love. Wouldn't want you to attract any more attention than strictly necessary, tonight of all nights." Isabela's breasts pressed together as she crossed her arms an leaned over the counter, beckoning to the young barkeep. Streyga threw back her head and swilled down the dregs before letting the man refill it for her, leaning back against the bar.

"How many?"

"Whew, least twenty…and that's not counting the ones who aren't wearing any armor to distinguish themselves from the common lot. The more drink Nora gives them, the sloppier they get. But still…you're sailing dangerous waters for the sake of a little rubbish ale…" Hawke didn't reply, swiping her drink off the counter and taking a swig. She glared blackly into it's depths, reveling in the steady burn of the alcohol through her system. The welcome way it soothed a little of the post-brawl ache and left behind a not altogether unpleasant, tingling numbness in her fingertips…

"I got sick of listening to Anders complain. Sick of listening to Carver complain, too." She sniffed, took another swig. The familiar feeling of smooth, casual candidness of the drink was taking effect. Isabela's elbowed bumped against her own and Streyga smiled lazily stretching her neck a little and nodding her head from side to side. Her limbs felt mildly leaden, pleasantly so. No pain, just pleasantness.

"What did Carver do to you, poor sweet thing?" Isabela's voice was like soft honey, amber and sweet and heavy on her tongue.

"Family matter. Nothing really…none of your damn business, leastways." Her eyelids fluttered and in the blackness behind them she saw Bethany's face. _No, no. None of that!_ Her glass was full again and she tipped it back and swallowed the vile brew like penance. A smile split across Hawke's face like a gambler's grin. "Where's Fenris? I think I'd very much like to smash something…"

"He said he wouldn't be here 'til later. Hawke-" Streyga pushed off the bar, stumbling slightly. It really, really didn't take much for her to become inebriated. She looked around the sea of faces, picking out one of the newer occupants. He was tapping two coppers together against the bar, lighting sparks off them in his nervousness. _You hide like a coward, boy. Like a rabbit who dove down a fox's hole, so sick with fright your about to piss yourself. _That was the height of pathetic behaviour, clearly the man wasn't a strong enough mage to be out of the Circle. She was doing him a favour, and she was _not _going to spend a week crouching in Isabela's closet while these cocky templars lurked around like a plague, listening to Anders lay blame at her feet.

The buzz of the templars chanting some strange bawdy drinking song at the top of their lungs broke through some of the clouded numbness like the playful barks of hounds before a hunt. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the two hardened veterans; sitting at opposite sides of the table, barely sipping their drinks. Shrewd, uptight…less clever than they thought they were if she was any judge. She really wasn't. She was drunk.

* * *

><p>"Oh shit." Varric breathed, already reaching for Bianca.<p>

There was an abomination lying dead at Hawke's feet. She was standing over it blood smeared and grinning like a cat with a canary pinned beneath it's paw. Twenty templars stood, their weapons still out, some of them fallen over in drunken heaps on the ground. Rivaini had her back pressed to a wall, her daggers out and her chest heaving. She glanced up at him and shook her head once, minutely. He heaved a sigh, slumping against the wall.

"Varric, what the hell just happened? By the Maker, Varric! Tell me she's not lying dead on the floor-" Blondie was practically twitching with nervousness, his face almost the same shade as Daisy's in his panic.

"Get back to Isabela's suite, go on! Just a bit of trouble, nothing Hawke couldn't handle. Blondie, _go_." Varric descended the staircase as Hawke helped a young templar to his feet, swaying slightly.

"Serrah Hawke? Is that you?" The boy stood up and clapped her on the shoulder, perhaps one of the only forces keeping her upright. _Keran_. _Thank the Maker…_

"The one and only." Hawke tottered in an ungainly bow, smiling merrily. "How's the sister?"

"Macha? She's doing well-" The eager young recruit was silenced as his commanding officer glided between them, teeth showing like a shark that's scented fresh blood.

"Odd to find you here, Serah." The templar lieutenant admonished, nudging at the abomination with the toe of his boot.

"Is it? This tavern's not but a five minute walk from my home." Hawke spread her arms in a magnanimous fashion, stumbling slightly.

"Indeed. But you have been oddly…absent. One would think to run into you more than once on a search through Lowtown." _Alrik_. According to Varric's various contacts, the worst possible templar for any mage to run afoul of.

"Aw, I was missed! Touching…" Hawke poked Alrik's breastplate, flirtatiously waggling her eyebrows at the unamused Templar. Varric shoved his way through until he was standing where Hawke could see him and made a frantic cut motion across his throat, shaking his head frantically. Streyga glanced over at him and burst into a snorting, drunken giggle.

"Do you find this amusing, Serah Hawke? Perhaps after a night in the Circle's dungeon-" Varric felt his heart sink and dearly hoped that Blondie and Daisy had taken his advice and returned to hiding. The last thing they needed right now was an all out battle between some very important templars, one very pissed off spirit, an elven blood mage and a violently, blithely drunk apostate. They'd destroy the Hanged Man…not to mention each other.

"Hold on there, we just met! Ohhh…you're not joking." Streyga dipped forward, staggering slightly and squinting before righting herself by leaning over a table. She cleared her throat and struggled to recover what tiny amount of composure she had left. Eyeing Alrik with an expression of utmost seriousness, she uttered the words that would either fling them into chaos or persuade the Templars to leave:

"With all due respect, Ser, I have been drinking. Heavily. Here. In this very tavern, since shortly after the disturbance in the square. That's your apostate, is it not? And surely, you've spent long enough in the hospitality of such a fine and upstanding establishment. I think it's time you-"

"Hawke! There you are! Good ser's, Keran. You'll have to excuse us, we were just-" Varric tactically positioned himself within tripping distance of Alrik, taking a quick few sidesteps around the abominations corpse.

"Leaving. I'm sure Ser Alrik understands and will be taking his men back to the barracks…thank you for your aid, Serah Hawke." Cullen removed his helmet, tucking it under his arm and shooting Alrik a severe look. Varric grabbed Hawke's sleeve and gave a hard yank, miscalculating the amount of balance she possessed. She stumbled sideways with a wave like a comedian being dragged offstage, giggling like a little girl. Isabela inserted herself into the awkward crowd as the templars recovered and started attending to the body of the abomination, the drunken patrons creeping out from the corners they'd rushed to.

"Alright, all of you! Who wants to buy me a drink?" _Thank you, Rivaini._ Hawke tried to wander back towards the bar and only his firm grasp on her elbow and belt kept her from reaching her goal.

"Oooohhh, Varric. You dirty dwarf, I had no idea you were so fond of me! Where are we going?" Varric sighed at the lewd commentary and leers they were getting as they made their way deeper into the Inn.

"If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times Hawke; I'm a dwarf's dwarf. Careful on the stairs-" She tripped on the first step as he turned back to help her and earned a face full of bosom for his trouble.

"Whoops! Sorry, Varric…I, oh. Oh no. I feel _sick_." The rogue extricated himself immediately from Streyga Hawke's clumsy grasp and got out of projectile vomiting distance. Hawke winced and dragged herself up to the second floor, her pallor looking mildly green. Nora strode by, glaring disapprovingly down at Hawke's prostrate form and then back up at Varric.

"If she's sick, I'm not cleaning it up." Hawke tugged at the serving maids skirt weakly, peering blearily up at her.

"Nora…I think another drink would make me feel better." The adorable smile was ruined as Hawke's eyes crossed and she made a hideous retching sound. Varric winced at the dry heaves and carefully helped Hawke stagger into a semi-standing position against the wall.

"Come on, Hawke. Let's get you back to Isabela's room-"

"Ble…BLECH…Ahhh!"

"Nice, Hawke."

"I blame…the mages…" All one hundred and thirty five pounds five foot, seven inches of Hawke crashed to the ground like a dead weight. Varric sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before gathering her up in his arms and carrying her back down to Isabela's suite and the furious looking Anders who stood in the doorway.

"Present for you?" Varric flashed the mage his most winning smile. "Chin up, Blondie. This is our Hawke, and we wouldn't want her any other way."


	2. Bethany's Anniversary

**Author's Note:** So…that was quite a break, wasn't it? I've been writing a lot on this particular fic(hence the double update), some of which will probably never see the light of day because there is something incredibly wrong with my 'write short one-shottish chapters' drive and I find myself reining in ten pages of what was supposed to be short, sweet, and to the point. This chapter I really wanted to get all the Bethany stuff out of the way, because it helps explain some things about this particular Hawke. Also, introduced Sebastian who will be important later. Eventually. Probably. So, for good or for ill, I listened to some angsty music and wrote this. Feedback is always appreciated! : )

"_Let the blade pass through the flesh,  
>Let my blood touch the ground,<br>Let my cries touch their hearts. __Let mine be the last sacrifice."_

_**–**_** Canticle of Andraste 7:12**

* * *

><p>"<em>You're either with us or against us. We gave you a chance to join us willingly, to fight for your own people. But no! You'd rather bow to the Templars, kneel in the Chantry before those who would subdue us! We offered you our friendship, our protection! And you threw it back in our faces! As mages, we must learn to stand together-"<em>

"_Please, I have no quarrel with you. But I must think of my family first." Father pleaded, his legs frozen mid-stride of the glowing paralysis rune. Streyga desperately tried to jerk herself free, to no avail. She couldn't even gather the magic she needed to attack once she got herself free, somehow they'd drained it. And here she'd thought- feared-that only Templars could do that. The apostates surrounded them on all sides, like wolves around wounded prey, waiting for the opportune moment to lunge for the throat._

"_Your family? Here's what I think of your family-"_

"_NO!" Streyga couldn't remember a time her father had looked so panicked, so filled with gut-wrenching horror. The leader threw something and she felt a punch to her chest…it was nothing? It felt like just a bolt of force magic, like the relatively gentle bolts she and Bethany would toss at one another from time to time. It wasn't-then there was pain, cold and sharp…between her ribs. A warmth that seeped through the linen tunic she was wearing, hot blood against her rain chilled skin. It was hard to…Streyga felt a surge of panic as she saw the dagger's curved handle sticking out of her chest…hard to breathe. "No! Please, I beg of you-"_

_So much blood, it filled her mouth with its salty, copper flavor. The pain was intense now, spreading as she tried to gasp past the blade. She wanted to grasp the handle of the dagger, pull it out. Anything to get it out of her chest, anything to live. She was dying! She opened her mouth to speak and all that came out was a mouthful of blood…dripping down her chin and falling to the leaf litter below, obliterating the rune_. _Someone was grabbing her by the shoulders, trying to keep her upright as she fell to her knees in the mud and leaves._

"_Father…?"_

"_STREYGA!" Blood that flowed and hissed like a river of lava down to a dark deep cavern full of screams. A thousand demons pressing in on every side…then the soft glow of healing magic. Safety, whispers, desperation. Comfort and cleansing, like childhood summer nights spent swimming in a cool, dark lake. All pain, all feelings of fear swept away with the tide…only half-healed and the strength is gone. The demons return, the night is long and there can be no end to it._

_Years pass. Bethany's sweet face as she smiles, as she heals like father taught her…the same face as she dies, her life's blood spilling from her lips as her warm brown eyes turn sightless to the sky. Eyes like honey, eyes like fire, eyes like light...eyes just like their father's. Leandra's scream, the snarls of the Darkspawn and so much fire it was hard to see through the glare of it. Carver taking her by the shoulders and shaking her, shouting at mother to keep moving, Aveline and the Templar with his blight sickened face…_

"_She is gone."_

* * *

><p>Streyga's eyes snapped open and she gasped in a breath of foul, mildewed air of Gamlen's shack. She lunged out of bed, stumbling over Carver in her haste. That's when the hangover sickness hit. She barely made it to a bucket in the corner in time, her stomach heaving.<p>

"Ugh, sister. What did I tell you about drinking before going to bed?" Carver's sleepy whine was smug, his voice barely audible over her wheezing. "I've heard more attractive noises from a darkspawn."

"Shut your fa-" Her throat jerked and she leaned over the bucket gasping, too weak to reply.

"Streyga, Carver. Stop fighting." Leandra stirred languidly in the bottom bunk, her rich voice shaded with exhaustion.

"We're not-" Streyga's retching drowned out her brother's childish protest. "Maker, sister! Are you-"

"Mmmfine. Go back to sleep." She reeled out of the bedroom and over to a side table, her rubbery fingers grasping for ground elf-root and a mess of other things. She chewed the bitter leaves, trying not to throw up again as she slumped onto the rug in front of the fire to wait out the illness.

_Damn it, I have a busy day ahead. I can't be sick._ She hated being in this damn shack, with only Leandra to nag her and Gamlen to whine at a decibel that gave the ever bitching Carver a run for his sovereigns. She was going out today, damn it. Find something someone needed doing and earn some money for it. Fight the boredom with some carnage and exercise. Maybe a Templar at the Gallows could point her in the right direction. _Fenris is always pleased by a little mage culling…_Her stomach tried to expel itself through her mouth in a dry heave. Ugh. But the elf root had definitely improved things, she sipped the half concocted potion, chewing on bitter, soggy leaves.

Surely she could think of something to keep her busy on Bethany's birthday…

* * *

><p>Hawke's footsteps snapped loudly across the hard marble floor of the Chantry, the staccato sounds echoing throughout the unfriendly space. She hated it here, loathed the building and all it stood for so much that it put a bitter taste in her mouth and made her heart pound with fury. Was it better than being shrieked at by Leandra in a tiny filthy house Gamlen hardly ever cleaned? Yes, but the only reason she was here was because of Leandra's screaming…was every consequent year to be like this one? Go to the Chantry and apologise for the fact that you lived and your sister died. If anyone could be blamed for Bethany's death it was Leandra. For being where she shouldn't have been, for letting her youngest child stand protectively in front of her. And snidely screaming that on her way out the door hadn't been Hawke's proudest moment, but it had granted her some smallish sense of vicious triumph when nothing but sobbing greeted her words.<p>

Streyga strode by the various chantry robed figures, nodded to a Templar before clunking to her knees in front of the giant, bronze statue of Andraste. She glowered up at the Maker's bride with utmost distaste. She remembered every chantry she'd ever been in, the cloying stink of incense and fuzzy glow of hard candy red candles. The way almost every chantry she'd ever entered was hot as a Fade dream that at any moment could turn ugly, a warmth that felt like it was stolen from the living things that dwelled within. As a child sitting in the sweltering heat on uncomfortable pews, mere feet from the Templars who would gladly imprison her forever in a place like this; she'd felt nothing but fear and hatred for the chantry mother groaning on and on in the background. Telling them over and over again of a Maker who loved all of his children, but would never forgive the mage's for attempting to reach heaven and for putting his bride to death.

Streyga couldn't blame him for that, it made sense. Punishment made a deity seem more real to her, she could sympathize with the urge to hurt those who had wronged you. She'd always have an unforgiving loathing in her heart for ogres…but she would never forgive and love the rest of the darkspawn, though. The Maker, if he was real, must hate everyone. Human, mage or darkspawn. There really wasn't a tremendous amount of difference between them.

_Well, I'm here. What can I say, sis? You're dead, I'm not…Carver and Leandra never shut up about how much they miss you. They wished I'd died instead, you know. You and Father were really the only ones who could stand me…Oh sod it all, I need a drink._ This was all Leandra's fault, she shouldn't be here in the Chantry. She didn't want to be here, she didn't want to think about Bethany. All this trash about the Maker-

"Excuse me, Mistress. I could not help but notice that you seem a little…troubled. Is there anything I can assist you with?" Streyga's eyes flicked open and she prepared to snarl at the arsehole who'd dared disturb her sulfurous contemplation of all that was wrong with the human/elven/mage condition and the words somehow got stuck in her throat. Maybe it was real guilt(she very much doubted it), or the incense, or just the surprise of seeing a chantry brother who didn't look like the unfortunate offspring of a leprous dwarf and a llama. She recognized his smooth accent from somewhere, even if the handsome face was unfamiliar.

"My sister. She died." Was all that would fight its way out of her throat. The man's bright blue eyes softened and he knelt beside her, his almost ornamental light armor an impressively shiny counterpoint to the drab black chantry robes.

"I am sorry, Mistress." Streyga shook her head and snorted, loudly enough that the other's sitting in quiet contemplation shot her ugly looks. She stuck her tongue out at them childishly before noticing the man's raised eyebrows and clearing her throat.

"Ah…it was a year ago. I'm not upset about it. These things happen." She should go, it was boring here. But she couldn't go home to Leandra, Merril had a cold, Anders was busy, Fenris somehow didn't seem like an option this early in the day. She'd rather chew gravel then go see Aveline and the Hanged Man was off limits if she didn't want to run into Carver-the man set a hand on her wrist. Streyga balked at such familiar contact but managed to clamp down on the urge to yank her hand away.

"What was her name?" The brother produced a fresh candle and placed it in her hand, candy red wax glistening in the light. The price of a candle like this, small as it was…could buy her a week's worth of ale or a mid-size vial of lyrium. Probably feed a family of refugees in Darktown for a few days. The decadent sentiment was something Beth would have appreciated. _Bethany always was an airheaded twit. _She really had been, too. What kind of healer threw themselves in the way of an ogre? Only an idiot…_she would have been safe in the Circle_…_they both would have_...

"Seems rather sacrilegious, lighting candles to a pseudo-deity who was allegedly burned to death at the stake…if I was her, I'd be offended. Demand buckets of water instead." Streyga rose to her feet less smoothly than she'd intended, her legs were sore from kneeling. To his credit, the brother seemed mostly unruffled by her statement and even graced her with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

"I see I have touched a nerve."

"It's a shame you're a Brother of the chantry, I'd let you touch more than that." Ah, success. The man's cheeks flushed with colour and he swallowed. Streyga winked at him and blew softly on the braided wick, igniting it with the tiniest lick of magical flame. The man's eyes widened in shock at her casual use of magic, his expression even seemed mildly fearful. _Oh yes, I'm a mage. Gird your loins and guard the faithful._ That fear…she use to feel offended when she saw it in people's eyes. Now, she relished it. "Does your Maker heed the prayers of mages, Brother?"

"The Maker loves all of his children-" Hawke chucked him the candle and turned her back on the giant bronze statue of Andraste, tugging her hood tighter around her face. The glint of metal-heavy armor, Templar's- flashed in the candlelight at the periphery of her vision. Coming for her, for her magic, like shark's scenting a drop of blood in an ocean of salt tears. Or perhaps she was the shark and they were the fishermen? Yes, that was more appropriate.

"Bethany. That was my sister's name." Hawke disappeared into the crowd of worshippers entering for midmorning mass, mere moments before the Templars who'd felt the harmless little spell could intercept her.


	3. Wounded

**Author's Note:** Yeah, I agonized over this chapter. But finally we have some Anders Hawke action and we never have to bother with bloody Bethany and the angstmobile ever again XD. One hopes. Enjoy!

P.S. Carver/Merril? Oh yes, I ship that. Hardcore. (Heheh, Ooooh filthy puns of Hawkeward.)

"_We are, largely, who we remember ourselves to be. That's why habits are so hard to break. If we know ourselves to be liars, we expect not to tell the truth. If we think of ourselves as honest, we try harder."_ **~ Holly Black,** _White Cat_

* * *

><p>"Hawke!" Fenris slammed his gloved fist against the worn door, causing the moldering wood planks to shudder in their frame. "HAWKE!"<p>

"It's no use, Broody. She's been in there for three days. She'll come out when she's good and ready." Varric's wise counsel fell on deaf ears as Fenris pounded on the door, stubbornly and repeatedly.

"She's in a sulk, Varric. She needs us." Aveline shushed, pulling her shield out and bracing it on her arm and calling through the door into the room beyond. "Hawke, if you don't come out; I'm coming in. I can always buy Gamlen a new door…"

Aveline braced one shoulder against the groaning woodwork as Varric sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about subtlety and the cost of doors these days. Merril stood by, perched on one foot like a tentative heron and peering at the ginger guardsmen with a look of trepidation.

"Maybe she just wants to be alone? We shouldn't bother her."

"One."

"Three days is more than enough alone time, Daisy. Here, step back. This isn't going to be pretty-"

"Two-" A shaft of light fell across the dimly lit common area and Merril turned with a squeak.

"Hello…Carver."

"What the bloody Void are you all doing here?" Carver stood in the open doorway, his arms full of cabbage and Theedog at his heels. The mabari bolted through his legs and leapt at Varric, barking happily and running his pink tongue across the dwarf's face.

"Ergh, Junior, call it off!"

"Not until you tell me what everyone's doing here. If Sister's called a slumber party you can all forget about it, even Gamlen has his limits-"

"We are looking for Hawke. This door is bolted and we assumed she she must be behind it, either deaf to or unwilling to hear our pleas. It has been three days, she must come out." Fenris grumbled, giving the door a fierce punch that popped it off one hinge with an unhealthy splintering sound. Carver set down his burden of cabbage in a basket beside the fire, shaking his head.

"Jokes on you, she's long gone by now. There's a trap door in there that leads into Darktown. What do you need her for, anyway?"

Everyone answered at once, Varric's 'Aveline's bored and needs to be taken for a walk' was eclipsed by the guardswoman's vehement protest and Merril's dithering 'Well…I wanted to know if she'd finished reading those books' and Fenris's sharp, decisive 'That is none of your concern'. Carver held up his hands, overwhelmed and shaking his head to ward off anymore answers.

"Gah! Go find her if you all need her so badly, just don't break the door-" With a creak, crash and a cloud of dust, the door to the bed chamber crashed inward. "-down. Well, that's just bloody brilliant."

"I can-"

"Aveline's paying for the door, Junior, don't you worry. Come on, gang, let's go fetch Hawke." The two warriors trudged through the now 'open' door, shooting Varric dirty looks as they went. "Daisy, you coming?"

"Oh…um, maybe I should stay here. Just to let Gamlen know. About the door, I mean." She chirped, scratching Theedog behind his ears.

"Alright then, you and Junior have fun." The dwarf waggled his eyebrows suggestively and disappeared into the still settling cloud of wood dust. There was a few moments of awkward silence as Carver searched through nonexistent mail, puttered around the house a little more and generally tried to avoid the little dalish elf happily communing with Streyga's mabari hound. Eventually, the silence became unbearable for him and he blurted the first thing that came to mind:

"Uh…so, how have you been?"

"Oh, alright. I've bit a little bored, though. What about you? Your sword does seem especially shiny as of late…" What had she just said? Carver blinked and shook himself, trying to recover.

"My sword is…shiny?"

"Mhmm. I wouldn't have noticed it but Isabela says you haven't had anything to do but polish it since Hawke hasn't taken you out on any adventures recently. I understand, I rarely get to go anywhere with her either. Mind you, Anders told me I wouldn't want to come anyway. Isabela and Fenris always seem to have a good time though…is there something wrong, Carver? Your face is a bit red."

"I…no, nothing! I haven't just been polishing my sword-" The words came out strangled as he looked away from the little elf, covering his face with a hand and trying to hide his blush. _Damn Isabela._ "That wasn't what I…"

"Isabela says it's perfectly natural…would you show me how?"

"How to what?" He asked warily, sitting down in one of the uncomfortable chairs by the fire and staring at her with what he hoped wasn't an expression of abject horror.

"To polish blades…Oh! Oh, I just got that. I'll…stop talking. Yes, sorry. Oh dear."

* * *

><p>"Hawke?" <em>Damn it<em>. Streyga winced, one foot poised mid-sneak before it occurred to her that she'd have gotten away if she could have just kept walking as though she hadn't heard him.

"What are you doing in Darktown? Were you going to the Clinic? Are you hurt?" The last was spoken with a glimmer of alarm to the curious tone.

"No." She snapped sullenly, rounding on Anders and pushing her ridiculous cowl back from her face. "I was just out walking."

"Why?" The healer's brown eyes narrowed and suspicion crept into his careful tone. "Certainly couldn't be for the glorious atmosphere and the strong smell of sewage…your nose is red and you look-" He considered her face for a moment as she glowered at him. "-patchy."

"I don't have to explain myself to you." Streyga rubbed furiously at her eyes and nose, sniffing hard and then glowering at him. Inevitably, the damnable man had been able to guess her affliction and now she was going to have to snarl on a day she hardly felt like snarling. All his damn fault, he should know better than to harass her while she was in a fugue- "I wish you would just-"

"You have a cold." Anders stated simply, adjusting the strap of the cloth bag he was carrying and raising his eyebrows at her, daring her to disagree. Streyga stood and glowered at the ground for a moment. With gritted teeth and folded arms, she nodded her head. "And you've been avoiding us so we wouldn't catch it."

"Right." She spat the word like it was poison, glowering as Anders lips twitched, clearly fighting the urge to break into a triumphant grin.

"A drink at the Hanged Man could fix that right up. The ale has remarkably astringent qualities-"

"No!" Anders turned back to her in alarm and she cleared her throat and tried again. "I mean no…I'm not…I owe Isabela enough money already. You don't have to-" Leave me alone! She wanted to snarl at him, but the words kept getting stuck in her throat. She never should have wandered down here, Darktown was too small not to run into him. And the way he was trying to…help…made her feel awkward.

"Tea, then. At my clinic." Anders beckoned her and turned on his heel as though it were already settled. Hawke turned and fled in the other direction, her fists clenched and her staff banging against the back of her knees as she dodged down aback alley. She was halfway through when she realized her mistake: A deceptively unthreatening shadow fell across her path. A dwarf's shadow. The Coterie. Streyga slammed her back to the wall just as a dwarven assassin's knife flashed through the air where she'd just been standing.

Cursing, she gave an awkward and flailing kick to her attacker's midsection and followed it up with a smart whack from the business end of her staff and sent him staggering. Three dwarves rushed her from behind and she blocked the second one, tossed a fireball that lit the third aflame. She could do nothing about the first but watch as he stuck a rusty dagger into her hip, slicing through her robes like they were tissue paper. Hawke shrieked with the pain of it and sent out a desperate blast of thought at her remaining assailants, even as a bolt of ice flew past her and pierced the heart of a stunned dwarf. She gasped and slumped to the ground as the survivors fled the scene of their attempted crime amidst the roar of Vengeance fueled fury. The presence of Justice grated on her every nerve as Anders blazed past her, his skin afire with the glow of spirit possession. Streyga hated it, the very feeling of Justice made her feel sicker and fainter with dread than the wound at her side ever could. She struggled to get her legs underneath her and rise even as the strange hyper-presence of the Fade dissipated into nothingness.

"Hawke!"

"I'm fine!" She snarled, panting with the pain of her wound and desperately trying to keep her adrenalin pumping and prevent unconsciousness from claiming her. Anders sans Justice dropped to his knees beside her, one hand supporting her shoulder as the other tried to drag her hand away from the bloody mess at her hip.

"Stubborn woman, let me see it!" She struggled against him for a moment, twisting against the hand that had become a restraint.

"Don't bother, I've had worse-"

Anders finally succeeded in drawing Streyga's hand away from her wound…a deep, wide gash but clean. He could heal it with magic…just as soon as they were out of the alleyway. He scooped her up despite a vehement protest that she could walk 'just fine' after falling twice, rushing her to the clinic. People moved for him, recognizing the apostate who'd closed up their wounds and leaving him be in a way that they would have allowed no one else. He set her down gently and rubbed his palms together, reaching for the mana-

"No! Don't! Not with magic…just sew it up." She gasped, surging up from the table and struggling as he tried to hold her down. Her blood seeped through the fabric of his under-tunic as she tried to buck him off, hissing in pain and panic. A few of the refugees who would sometimes lend a hand with difficult patients took tentative steps towards them, only for Hawke to catch a glimpse of them out of the corner of her eye.

"Get away from me! Get out." Her fingernails raked across his neck as she fought to rise from the table.

"Hawke! I'm not going to hurt you, it won't heal well unless you let me-" He heaved and slammed her back onto the table, wincing as her head cracked back against the wood.

"NO! I said no, damn it!" She lunged at his face like a striking snake only to weaken halfway through her attack as the move pulled on her wound. His hands warmed with the glow, the urge and need to heal her wound before she lost any more blood.

"You're a _mage_! And you're disgusted by healing magic? No, this is for your own good; your prejudices be damned-"Her fingernails raked across his neck and she gasped a sob, surprising him into releasing her. "Please! _Please_…not with magic…please, Anders, _please_." Her eyes squeezed shut against the tears that streamed down her tattooed cheeks. Not hatred, loathing or disgust…just _fear_.

"I don't have anything left for the pain-"

"It's fine! I can handle it…" She lay back against the straw pillow, her face gray and glimmering with a sheen of sweat. Her breath came in sharp, hysterical gasps of abating fear.

"Will you tell me why?" He asked quietly as he threaded the improvised suture needle, poured some cheap ale over a clean rag, staining it brown. She gritted her teeth as he cleaned the cut, growling with frustration as her fingers clutched at the table with a white-knuckled grip.

"It doesn't bloody matter why! AH!" Anders gently rubbed away the partially congealed blood from the raw, tender flesh.

"Just how much is a grudge against your own kind worth to you? If I wasn't sure you'd be dead before you reached Hightown like this, I'd have left you in that alleyway! Wasn't your father a mage, how can you be like this-!" He plunged the needle into her skin and she gasped, her teeth snapping together with a click.

"Oh, really…What happened to tea and cakes?" She hissed, clearly fighting unconsciousness.

"I mistakenly started to give a damn…you think I really believed you had a cold! What were you doing storming about Dark town in tears, anyway? Feeling sorry for yourself-"

"Carver and Leandra chased me out of the house, Anders! Neither of them will shut up about bloody Bethany." Anders breath caught and he flinched even as he pulled the first suture tight. Hawke stared at him, all passion and rage in her sapphire gaze. "Yes, the dead sister. Young, naïve…_friendly_. A mage-"

"Like you-" Anders leapt at the chance to criticize her once more.

"No. She is-_was_-nothing like me. She could heal, fix people and things. She was good at it and she…" Hawke pressed her lips together against another whimper of pain. "…_liked _helping people."

"Yes. It's strangely refreshing, a battle mage like you should try it sometime-"

"I have tried, you insensitive prick. I can't. And don't give me that 'you can't because you think you can't' rubbish." Anders stopped what he was doing and reached for one of her hands. She snatched it away with a wolf-like snarl. "I'm not a child! I don't need your sympathy."

"Funny, then, how often you act like one. I'm going to show you how to heal." He replied, grabbing her hand back and pressing her fingers to the still gaping side of the wound. Her blue eyes darted and she let out a hissing breath, her shaking hand quivering in his grip.

"You think I haven't tried this a thousand times before? You just as delusional as I thought if you think you can succeed where my father couldn't…" Anders glared down at her, this fierce, angry woman lying on his cleanest exam table.

"I want you to gather whatever wits you may have and focus them-"

"I told you I don't want magic!"

"I won't suture until you try!" For a second, tears of something other than pain glittered in her eyes and she sucked in a shaky breath.

"I'm focusing…you Maker-damned fuck-"

"Good. Let go of your tension, imagine the pain leaking away. Think of all the focus and power you have closing up the wound, just will it to mend…" it was hard to coach and not have his own healing magic interfere. He looked into her glacial blue gaze and even if he couldn't have sensed the mundane deadness in her fingertips, would have known that she wasn't healing herself. There was so much rage there, so much seething fury and passion. Emotions to destroy…not to heal. "Picture Bethany, try to think like she did-"

"I am not my sister! She's dead because even with this _gift_-" Streyga held up her other hand, glowing red with conjured flame that licked at her wrist like a live, hungry thing. "-I wasn't fast enough to protect her. And then, when she lay broken and bleeding and Leandra was screaming for her to wake up, I couldn't bring her back. There was just enough breath left that someone could have healed her…but I couldn't." Her words choked in her throat, the flame that licked her fingers petering out.

"I'm…so sorry, Hawke."

"Don't tell me you're sorry! I'm not sorry! I wasn't the one who died, why should I be sorry! The wound, you self-righteous twat. Suture it, or grind some sewage into it. Whatever you do, Anders, by Andraste's grace _stop talking to me_." The apostate opened his mouth and then closed it, remaining silent as he worked. Every sharp inhalation and barely suppressed whimper made him grit his teeth. He wished he hadn't spoken, so he wouldn't feel guilty for causing the deplorable and hypocritical woman pain.

"Still don't want me to just heal it for you?" He jabbed the needle into her flesh again, pulling a stitch tight and feeling a twin pang of guilt and triumph at her sharp cry.

"Stitches." She spit vehemently, stubborn even in pain. Anders kept stitching, trying not to feel personally offended. A mage! A mage who can't heal…how was that even possible. He tied off the last stitch and dropped the needle into a bowl of warm water, using a cloth to wash his fingers of her blood.

"Are you done?" She snapped through gritted teeth, sitting up gingerly.

"No, I'll need to make a poultice and dress it…you need to remove your robes." He left her for a moment to gather his supplies, nearly knocking over a vial of powdered elf root in his irritation. He carefully mixed the ingredients into a paste, heated a bowl of water with a conjured flame and placed the pad of bandages within it before coating them with the mix. He snatched a roll of bandages and his own blanket off a cot in the corner, marching back to Hawke and shoving aside the makeshift privacy curtain.

"I can give you this to cover up-" Anders breath caught and he bit off the end of his sentence. The robes she was wearing were slung around her hips, the belt discarded on the floor. She stood with her hands braced against the exam table, the bones of her spine forming a soft ridge down to the hollow at the small of her back. The line of black stitches at her right hip interrupted the otherwise smooth flow of sunlight kissed, pale skin. Strands of nearly white hair escaped the partially unraveled bun at the back of her head, spilling down between her shoulder blades, sweat-dampened at her neck-

"What?" She glanced over her shoulder at him, lips pulled into a sneer. "Your poultice? Or are you just going to stand there gaping like you've never seen a half-naked woman before?"

"Didn't Leandra ever teach you any manners?" He huffed, pulling the curtain back into place behind him. She met his scowl with a smirk of what could only be described as some sort of backwards approval of his jab.

"Father taught me my manners. Then I forgot them. Leandra doesn't have the stomach for discipline." Hawke murmured as he strode up beside her, careful to keep his eyes on her wound as he placed the bowl of poultice on the table.

"Pity. She could have made a civil human being out of you." Her chuckle of black amusement quickly turned into a gasp as he began gently applying the paste. She hissed, her fingernails digging into the soft planks. He smoothed one edge of the bandages over it and began to wind them around her belly. He was wrapping the linen around the curve of her left hip and silently cursing the amount of bandages it would take to secure the poultice when he felt it: a finger width scar running between her ribs. The mark was a shade whiter than her pale skin, a raised ridge of tissue. Not a jagged cut, but a swift and dexterous one. A mortal wound, one that would have pierced her lung…so she _had_ once accepted healing magic. From a talented mage as well, even Anders would have had trouble repairing all that damage.

"How did it happen?"

"You were there, I got scratched by the little dwarves in the funny helms-"

"Not the wound today, the sca-"

"I fell down the stairs when I was six. It was a shallower than it looks…but Mother did a bang up job on the stiches that time. Not like your's…your stitches are quite fetching, actually. That fish-hook you call a suture needle notwithstanding." She sucked in a breath as he brought the length of bandage around her waist a third time. Anders clenched his teeth against a sigh of exasperation. She was lying, that much was clear. Fine, if she wanted to play that game, he was more than happy to oblige.

"A woman attracted to my stitching? I never thought I'd see the day."

"Don't forget your broad, feathery shoulders. I think that's my favourite. Oooh and the fifth bell shadow across your chin-"

"Hawke, I'm not an idiot." He snapped, glaring down at her. She smiled, that wicked, beautiful smile that had so many fickle meanings he never knew if she was pleased or angry.

"You could have fooled me." There was a bang that made Anders jerk and Hawke reached unconsciously for her staff-

"MAGE!"

"Broody, slow down! Remember what happened last time we stormed in here weapons out?" Varric's voice exclaimed from somewhere beyond the curtain, it's tone ever reasonable.

"Fenris!" And Aveline…

"Mage! Where are you? Where's-" A clawed gauntlet ripped down the privacy curtain and revealed the tattooed elf, the expression of wide-eyed shock on his face comical. "Haw…ke?"

"Congratulations, you found the mages." Anders declared, his mood greatly improved by the way Fenris' ear tips seemed to be turning a bright shade of red. _An elven blush. Oh, this is marvelous._

"I believe the phrase you're looking for is 'breasts', Fenris." Streyga dead-panned as the elf struggled to replace the curtain. "Don't bother. Not as if you haven't seen a pair before…or do they look different in Tevinter?"

"Manners, Hawke." Anders clucked his tongue and tried to hide his smile at the elf's discomfiture.

"Go suck Andraste's-"

"Ahem." Aveline cleared her throat loudly and raised her eyebrows pointedly.

"-hairy tit, Anders." She finished, giving him a sultry wink over one shoulder as he bent to tie off the bandage. What the hell did that mean? Was she mocking him, trying to play nicely in front of the others?

"By the Maker…more of you then I wanted to see, Hawke." Varric threw up a gloved hand to shield his eyes as Fenris' mouth snapped shut and he cleared his throat.

"Squeamish? After you subject the rest of us to a daily dose of your own bare chest? No one said you had to keep looking, Varric. For all the times that Isabella's flashed us I'd think you'd be pretty used to the sight of a woman's-"

"Finished!" Anders said, trying to head off the conversation about breasts before it began. He shoved a blanket into Hawke's arms, careful not to accidentally grope her but swiftly enough to impress upon her his point. She raised one eyebrow and shot him a crooked smile.

"Do you always finish up so quickly?" Varric snorted loudly and Fenris' still mildly mortified expression turned to a smirk. Anders gritted his teeth and turned back to her with a wicked smile of vengeance.

"Depends on the wound. Little scratch like that…doesn't take me long." Hawke's laugh was cold and sharp, like a bird's cry in frigid winter air.

"Hey, Dirty Mages. I hunted up some work for us, if you're interested." Hawke dropped the blanket, causing everyone to once again avert their eyes as she carefully and slowly pulled her robes back up her arms as she spoke, grinning slyly.

"Who are you calling a dirty mage, Varric? Our smash-bang-thank you healer or myself?" She tightened the laces at the back of her neck and grinned down at her dwarven companion devilishly. 'What's the job?"

"A woman in the alienage has a young son. She tried to take him to the Circle but he ran off, standard search and drag kicking and screaming back home." Varric murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. "Boy's name is Feynriel and he's half elf, half Antivan. Having nightmares about the Fade-"

"What? He got away and we're going off to put him back in that prison? Absolutely not, I'd rather-" Anders interjected, offended that the dwarf would even consider such a task for Hawke to take on. Surely this woman as an apostate would sympathize with-

"He's a young, desperate mage. We need to find him before he hurts himself…or anyone else." Anders balked and glared at her, wanting with desperate vengeance to kick her in the sutured side.

"His own bloody mother is trying to hand him over to the Templars and he actually gets away and you want to-"

"You escaped a Circle in the countryside of Fereldan, he's escaped into a city. Different circumstances, Anders. If you feel so strongly about it, you can sit on your arse in this pit healing gout for the next three days. Or maybe you can actually be the one driving force there to change my mind about just dumping him on the Templar's doorstep. Your choice." She departed with Varric, Fenris and Aveline…her limp barely apparent. She must have been in a world of agony she wasn't showing, the bitch.

"Hawke!" He called as she reached the door, one hand on the iron latch.

"We'll be at the Hanged Man tonight if you change your mind." She turned to him as Varric fairly shoved a stubborn Aveline out the door Hawke was holding. _Oh no, you don't._

"It's not that. Bethany's death wasn't your fault." Fenris' brows arched in surprise and Aveline paused, her face expressionless and rigid with amazement. Varric merely sighed and muttered something as he ushered the other two out over the threshold of the clinic. Hawke stood there shaking with thin-lipped rage, her expression nigh unreadable. There, that moment of surprise was a victory. She glared at him from across the clinic, lips curling into a sneer.

"I know, it was her own stupid fault." The door to the clinic slammed shut so hard he could hear the timbers cracking away from their hinges.


	4. Bas Saarebas

**Author's Note:** So, another wait folks! But I'm back! And I've been trying to reply to everyone's lovely reviews! Thank you so much, literally leap about with joy when I receive them! This chapter is a little bit of Fenris…it was in fact intended to be a chapter about Hawke meeting Fenris but for some reason that just never happened XD. Instead, enjoy an evening on the Wounded Coast…

"_Life has not been devised by morality: it wants deception, it lives on deception."_ ** ~ Friedrich Nietzche**

* * *

><p>"So, dwarf. Tell me about this escaped slave the champion found." Ooooh, if Broody could hear this woman talk. If Hawke could hear this woman talk! She'd have killed her, or at least punched her very hard in the jaw like Fenris had taught her.<p>

"Fenris? Why? I thought you were interested in Hawke-"

"I am interested in why a mage-shy slave would so willingly work with another mage so soon after he won his freedom from the magisters." Cassandra's eyes glittered in the gloom, her lips twisting into a sneer. "And I heard some…colourful rumors about their relationship."

"Hawke never did anything that wasn't colourful. I'll tell you everything but you should know that I've always wanted to doctor this part-" The Seeker drew her blade in a liquid quick movement, aiming it towards my chest. "-I won't now, of course. I mean just for entertainment purposes. Some people like a story that ends well. Clearly you want all the ugly details…"

"Does their story not end well?" Cassandra sheathed her sword and frowned, footsteps echoing across the stone as she paced.

"It's complicated."

"Tell me everything you know."

* * *

><p><em>"You harbor a viper in your midst, it will turn on you and strike when you least expect. That is in its nature."<em>

_"Well, it's a good thing I've got my own set of matching fangs, isn't it?"_

Fenris cleaved a man in two with one fell swoop of his great-sword, warm blood splattering his neck. He checked a blow for the perceived enemy beside him seconds before he slammed his pommel into the back of Hawke's head. She was too absorbed in casting a firestorm to notice, overkill for the three remaining foes desperately trying to scramble out of range.

Laughing savagely, arms upraised to a bloody sunset over the Wounded Coast, she rained down devastation from the heavens themselves. Fire scorched the ground in gobs of exploding flame, swept up from the earth in swirling pillars of bone-blackening heat. Fenris kept his sword drawn, tried not to be dazzled by the brightness of the fire. Then, like a candle snuffed out, the storm ceased. Hawke's arms fell to her sides, the sizzling pop of crisped flesh and the crackle of burning crab grass the only sounds apart from her panting breaths. Death and devastation wreaked, Hawke let out a whoop of joy, spinning on her heel and then plopping down on the sand like a dizzy child.

"Need healing?" The Abomination asked, his glare fixed on Fenris even though his query was directed at Hawke. The Abomination, much as he feigned hatred of Hawke, was nonetheless fiercely protective of her. Or maybe Anders was merely extremely distrustful of him and that made up the difference.

"No," Hawke answered him curtly, brushing a few blood soaked strands of hair back from her glittering blue eyes. Her pupil's eclipsed the iris, blown wide and blinking against the slant of dusk. "I need mana. Give us a kiss, Fenris?"

She smiled through the blood and soot stains, the curve of her lips touched with wickedness as she beckoned him with one hand. For a horrific moment, Fenris felt as if he was back in Minrathous: Mage's with their blood-thirsty, power-hungry smiles of lust and desire; the hedonistic pleasure of their own power suffusing their every gesture with casual menace.

"No."

"I was only kidding, Fenris." Her smile is replaced by a frown and she no longer looks like a magister. Just like a mildly insulted woman. _Fool, she never did look like a magister. Hawke is different, Hawke is…_Fenris wants to think that she is good, if there can be a such thing as a good mage. _No, good is insufficient. A friend, this is the word._ Hawke is a friend, attempting to joke with him and he just insulted her. _Van hedis…_

"Of course, Hawke." He made a face and sheathed his sword, jumping as Isabela slid a hand across the small of his back as she passed, a bottle of lyrium dangling from her fingers. The pirate casually tossed the precious substance to Hawke; the mage reaching out with a whip quick movement and snatching the bottle out of the air. Mage's were always freakishly quick after battle, the heat of their magic was still singing in their veins.

_"What manner of mage are you, then? What is it that you seek?"_

_"Why don't you find out?"_

"You're addicted to lyrium; just let it come back on its own. You need rest." Anders insisted as Hawke bit down on the cork of the bottle and gave a sharp, reptilian jerk of her head. There was a satisfying pop and Fenris watched her dump the glittering substance down her throat, swallowing greedily and then wincing against the taste. She flings the bottle aside and it shatters across the hard-packed sand in glittering shards of ruin, each reflecting the sun's dying rays.

Hawke gave a vicious shake of her head and picked up her staff, securing it over her shoulders. Isabela crouched amid the wreckage and looted the bodies, snatching back her fingers with a hiss of pain when they touched some red-hot armor on accident. The rogue stuck her fingers in her mouth and sucked gently, gingerly checking the charred corpse's coin purse.

"Any coin?" Streyga asked, bending down beside Isabela and reached out with one flame suffused hand to sort through the scattered limbs and equipment. Fenris snorts, it is unlikely that anything of this mess can be salvaged. The Abomination may be the most annoying mage Fenris has ever met, but he is right about this: Hawke has glutted herself on lyrium and her spells are wild because of it.

The action is not something he's familiar with; if the mages in Minrathous needed more power than lyrium could give them, they used blood. Hawke's lyrium habit does not seem to stem from a lust for power, it is more of a conscious decision to take the substance regularly. She does not seem to relish it overmuch but nor would she only take it when she absolutely needed it.

"What? You mean these lumps of melted metal?" Isabela queries with a sigh, picking through the ruin of a charred leather coin pouch.

"Andraste's sanctified tits!" Streyga swore viciously, kicking a body away from her in distaste and turning on her heel. Fenris stepped aside so she could move past him, noting the stiffness in her shoulders. The anger and the barest shimmer of heat haze around her arms, as though the fire she can call into being is just there beneath the surface of her skin.

"You see? The last thing you need is more lyrium-" The Abomination reaches for her wrist; a mistake to do so when she is in this mood. There is a satisfying crunch as Hawke's fist connects with Anders's face. Fenris, despite himself, feels a tremendous amount of pride at the action. Hawke staggers back from the blow, cradling her hand and gasping with pain even as the Abomination raised the back of his hand to his nose and came away bloody. Anders healed the injury without a second thought, snapping his nose back into place and spitting a globule of blood in the sand. "That was certainly mature."

"I told you to mind your own business, Anders. No, don't touch me! Bruised my knuckles, that's all." Odd, that she will not let the Abomination heal her. Not properly…Fenris may have abhorred magic but even he knew it was folly to refuse to have one's wounds attended to. But then, he'd thought she healed them herself up until the Abomination's loud and rather vengeful jab in front of the young mage Feynriel last week.

With a withering glare, Hawke turned on her heel and marched stiffly in the direction of Kirkwall. Isabela took a few tentative steps in her direction but faltered at the wordless snarl. Fenris fell into step a suitable distance behind Hawke, watching her stride ahead and noting her slight limp. Isabela caught his eye and gave a firm jerk of her head in Hawke's direction. What did the pirate think he could do that she couldn't? Fenris sighed and lengthened his stride to keep pace with Hawke.

"I told you to-! Oh…" She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and sighed, shaking her head. "Sent you to placate me, have they? Or are you going to take me up on the kiss?"

"A kiss would be nice, when I can be sure it is I who you are lusting for and not the lyrium under my skin." Fenris was surprised when he heard Hawke laugh at what had been intended as a serious rebuke. It wasn't often that she laughed in a way that wasn't at least mildly mocking or cruel and the sound was pleasant. He returned her smile and watched some of the stiffness in her posture lessen.

"That wasn't a no…" She murmured thoughtfully, stretching her neck and arms and shaking out the residual tension of her outburst. "You're only half-joking about the lyrium though, aren't you? I would never do that to you, Anders might approve."

It was Fenris' turn to laugh, even if he did so somewhat warily. "You are…an uncommon mage, Hawke."

"Uncommon? Is that what they're calling it these days? Apostate refugees with a taste for rubbish ale and the blood of the vanquished must be a copper a dozen. Besides, I'm a woman…not just a mage. Being able to fling fireballs around is just an extra…it's a condition." The way she smiles…he can almost think of her as just a woman. Almost. If it wasn't for the subtle way her connection to the Fade made his very skin crawl and just-there was something in the eyes, something that screamed mage. How the Templars Hawke was on such friendly terms with could not see it, Fenris did not know.

But had she ever denied him a favour? She was constantly bending over backwards to help him, she saw mages as the danger they were. She was capable if not always kind, strong if not always polite. Oddly, her demeanor at times reminded him vaguely of the Fog Warriors. He smiled at the mental image of Hawke among them, scantily clad in the Qunari raiment and painted with red war dye, a spear in one hand and fireball in the other-abruptly, the picture was shattered. Hawke could never be one of them. _Bas Sarrebas_. Quite literally 'a dangerous thing'. The Fog Warriors would never tolerate a mage in their ranks, even one as careful as Hawke.

"_A mage's power stems from chaos and demons, they can never be in control. Would you not cage a mad wolf, karasaad kabethari?"_

"Perhaps. But it is a rare apostate refugee who is not confined to the Circle or dead by now." The words were meant to be a compliment, an affirmation of his respect for her.

"Yes, lucky me." Hawke's expression shifted from a sultry sort of relaxed smile to a dark look, not directed at him but rather at the road beneath their feet and some offending point on the horizon. The feeling of tension returned to their conversation in a flash, as evident click of gritted teeth and the way Hawke's fingers curled into a fist at her side.

"Hawke-" _I misspoke…a careless mistake._ Even though he'd been free more than a year, he braced himself for the feeling of a vengeful wrench on his lyrium marks. It was a mental kind of flinch, to expect pain and not receive it was still an unbalancing experience. But Hawke wasn't Hadrianna, wasn't a magister. She wasn't even looking at him.

"Isabela!" Hawke turned on her heel and beamed at the pirate woman, walking backwards a few steps as she spoke: "We're still on for Diamondback tonight, aren't we?"

"I thought you were trying to earn coin, not lose it." Isabela chuckled, hip checking Fenris on her way past and shooting him a triumphant grin as she fell into swagger beside Hawke, setting a hand on the small of the other woman's back. Fenris frowned, the Isabela's hand was too low for his liking. It was one thing for the pirate to rub herself all over the rest of them, but to do so to Hawke was demeaning.

"Hmm, a look halfway between brooding and longing… What emotion might that be? Oh, I know. Jealousy!" Anders had crept up to walk beside him and was now studying his face with a look of black amusement. Here was a mage who reminded him of the Imperium, of the magisters. Petty and vengeful, faithless and blind. The only reason Fenris did not march into the Gallows and lead the Templars to his clinic in Darktown was because it would involve having to face Hawke afterwards.

_"They wouldn't give you to the slavers, Fenris. And if they try, I'll personally help you rip their hearts out."_

_"And if I decide to turn them in before they can do so to me?"_

The small show of distaste for his earlier comment had been nothing in comparison to her reaction when he'd threatened that. Something truly malevolent and wrathful had lit her face like a tiger's snarl and she'd stared him down with a killing glare that made even Hadriana's most menacing look seem a kitten's hiss in comparison. And she'd laughed at him in a way that raised the tiny hairs on the back of his neck, lanced a shock of pain in each curl of lyrium on his skin.

_"A preemptive double cross? You did learn something from the Magisters, after all…"_

"Shut up, Mage." Fenris muttered without much effort, lengthening his stride to try and catch up with Hawke and Isabela before he punched Anders in his smug face.

"If I'm a mage and Merril's a mage…what does that make Hawke? Mages," Anders heaved a long suffering sigh, eyeing the spectacle of Isabela's hand on Hawke's arse with open appreciation. "we all go bad eventually."

Fenris felt the buzz of lyrium beneath his skin and gritted his teeth. He'd never felt the urge to kill the abomination so keenly as he did then. Hawke was twice the mage Anders would ever be. Hawke wasn't just a mage, she was a woman…she was his friend.

"She's nothing like you-"

"So it's agreed then: I pay you in sexual favours?" Hawke asked the dusky skinned woman at her side, her sultry voice laced with amusement. Fenris felt a sharp stab of frustration and tried not to let the emotion show, not to give the Abomination the satisfaction of knowing that he'd struck a nerve.

"Well, Sweet Thing, by that logic, Lanky owes me a good roll in the hay…or twenty." Female laughter of the piercing kind cackled through the evening air like dissonant birdsong and Hawke whispered something in Isabela's ear, leading to even more raucous laughter.

"I prefer to pay you in coin." That woman and her mouth…or was it those women and their mouths? Hawke glanced over her shoulder and shot him an incandescently adoring smile and winked.

Fenris looked away and was fiercely grateful that Hawke couldn't see the blush on his eartips.


	5. Pride and the Fall

**Author's Note:** Some fun with Merril and a bit of Carver/Anders/Varric et al. doing some exposition stuff. Written on a whim so probs not a sterling example of awesome but it is nonetheless a chapter and I've been crouching over my sixty seven pages like a dragon over a treasure hoard so I figured I may as well post. Enjoy!

"_Magic gives you a lot of choices. Most of them are bad_." _**~ Holly Black**_

"Here you are, Merril. Your books." Hawke smiled sweetly and handed over the armload of books she was carrying. Merril took them and set them on the table carefully, she didn't want to drop anything in front of Hawke and look foolish. She wasn't foolish, she was just a bit clumsy when she got nervous. _Don't be nervous then, Merril. Don't babble. This is Hawke, you shouldn't be nervous around Hawke._

"Thank you, Hawke! It's so nice of you to come see me…I…um, would you like some water?" _Merril, you bloody idiot, why would she want some alienage water?_ Hawke's lips crooked sideways in a wry sort of half smile and she placed a small wooden box on top of the stack of books.

"How about some tea, instead?"

"You brought me tea?" Merril set the books down and picked up the little box reverently. She slid open the lid and sniffed the leaves, beaming. Then her heart plummeted, Hawke had gotten her a gift but she didn't-

"Oh, Merril. Not the kicked puppy face, you didn't have to get me anything, you leant me the books. Besides, it was Carver's idea." Hawke sighed and leaned back on the bench, her feet hooked under the tables support beam.

"Carver?" Carver was very sweet, but not sweet in the way Varric was sweet. Sweet like…like how Tamlen had been sweet around Mahariel. Carver had always been nice to her, who never mentioned her blood magic or sneered at her or seemed to judge her.

" Mhm. We never threw you a house-warming party so a box of Nevarran tea will have to do. Think of it like a fond, hearkening back to Ferelden type gift. Besides, it makes me sad to think all you've got is water. Least you could do is drink a little ale now and then to clear out your system." Hawke sat down at the bench and plucked one of the books from the stack, flipping immediately to the page she needed. "I'll just give this chapter another looksee while you put the kettle on, shall I?"

Merril turned to the preboiled water and felt a slight chill ripple down her spine. Hawke was looking at _that_ book? The one bound in thin, blood crusted hide with the spiky runes and the archaic Arcanum script? That book was all about practical blood magic, filled with gruesome pictures and things Merril'd rather not think about. Hawke claimed her interest in the book was from a purely linguistic point of view…_that must be it, Hawke would never do blood magic._

"Merril…your demon, is it a pride demon?"

"I…yes, he is." Invidious stirred laboriously in the back of her mind, tugging on a few Fade strands to let her know he was listening and at the ready in case she needed him. _Not now._

"Very powerful…" Hawke said it lightly, like they were discussing the weather. Her dark blue eyes were bright as a jay's plumage as her gaze flicked quickly over the writing, her tattoo's matching their hue across her high cheekbones. There was hunger and a coldness there that matched Merril's every nightmare of Fen'Harel. Suddenly, Hawke looked up and caught Merril staring. She cocked an eyebrow and the expression of avid interest so quickly became a relaxed smile Merril nearly poured scalding water all over her hands.

"So, how are you settling in? Made any friends yet?"

"Ah no, not really. None of the other elves really bother to talk to me that much. Anders came to see me the other day, though. He checks on me sometimes…mostly to make sure I haven't spontaneously combusted into an abomination, I think. That and well, he'd never admit it, but I think he's a little lonely." Hawke took the mug of tea carefully, smiling over the rim of it. That smile was so…unsettling. Hawke smiled when she was happy, Hawke smiled when she was mad, sometimes Hawke even smiled when she was upset. Isabela did the same thing, but there was some tiny flicker of telling emotion that always leaked past the pirate woman's most disarming expressions that let you know what she really felt.

"You know how careful you are in the Fade? Careful not to listen to demons without a very good reason? That's how you have to be around Anders. Don't let him fill your head with any of his nonsense. He has a pretty voice, but you're better off if you just smile, nod and do whatever else you were going to do in the first place." Hawke took a swig of tea and set down her mug. "And then enjoy that delightful offended noise he makes when you ignore all his suggestions."

Hawke winked and Merril giggled, holding her mug up to her lips to hide her smile. Hawke might smile in a way that was mysterious, but Merril could never smile like that, try as she might. Her smile was always obvious, always open. Mahariel had once told Merril that she smiled too much, no one took you seriously if you smiled that much. And missed it when people made innuendos, and got lost five minutes from your house/aravel/camp and had to be guided back by your friends…but then, if no one took you seriously, you were much safer. Her clan hadn't taken her seriously, not until she'd gotten into blood magic. If people didn't take you seriously to begin with, they never suspected you.

"Hawke…these books, you're not interested in practicing blood magic, are you?" Merril asked suddenly, choking on the words. What if Hawke got offended? What if Hawke yelled? Hawke was terrifyingly mean when she got angry, but she had to know. Hawke didn't _need_ to be a blood mage, Hawke didn't have an entire culture to salvage-_**You wanted me as much as you need me, little First. You could have simply used me to aid you with the mirror and ended our deal, but you haven't; you feed me with your own blood and with that of your enemies. Why is this HawkeMage any different-**_Merril twisted the Fade strands and severed her connection for the time being, shutting out Invidious's silky whispers and trying to focus on Hawke's response.

"Don't be silly, Merril. Do I look like a blood mage to you?" There was the smile again, silky and cool and blithe as a demon's. Merril didn't speak, but all the same she felt a chill down her spine. _"It's funny, you didn't strike me as a blood mage at first glance…"_ Anders had spoken those very words, bitter with resentment as they walked back to Kirkwall. Something didn't have to look dangerous to be dangerous. Hawke sighed and rolled her eyes, swooping down and kissing Merril on the forehead. She could feel the tips of her ears reddening as Hawke gripped her by the chin and looked right into her eyes. Someone who was lying would never do that, would they? "Oh Merril. You want to know why I'm really reading about blood magic?"

"Yes."

"Well, other than the fact that it helps me brush up on my Arcanum, I'm sure Anders had told you I've been doing some…errands for the Templars. I want to know what I'm up against, Merril. The more I know, the less likely I'll end up with some lunatic using my entrails as skipping rope. The better I'm able to protect you and Anders from the Order." That…that made sense, actually. Hawke rose and ruffled Merril's hair, sending her little ponytails all askew. Merril took a sip of her tea and tried not to spit it back up into her cup as the substance scorched her tongue. Ohhhh, I'm an idiot!

"I…I'm sorry, Hawke. That was silly of me to think…I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?" Hawke chuckled and reached for her staff, strapping it on over her shoulders. She was so pretty, so confident and strong. Merril felt a surge on envy for the easy way Hawke grinned and pulled her cowl up over her head, casting her tattooed face in shadow. She made being an apostate look so easy.

"Stop worrying! There's nothing for me to forgive. I'm not about to jump into the Fade and cut a deal with the first demon I come across." Hawke checked her staff over her shoulder and opened the door, a dark figure in the shaft of brilliant sunlight from outside. "Take care, Merril. And tell Invidious I say hello."

The door shut firmly behind her and Merril gripped her little tankard of tea like it was anchoring her to earth.

_I never told her your name._ Merril took a sip of her suddenly cold tea and stared blankly at the closed door.

_I introduced myself. _The demon's unctuous tone slid over her mind like blood oozing down a blade.

_You leave Hawke alone._ It was frightening to think that the demon had spoken to Hawke and Merril hadn't known it, that Hawke might be lying. Invidious's chuckled echoed through her skull and she could see the faintest shadow of the Pride demon's profile looming against the back wall of her home.

**_Are you jealous?_**

_Go away!_ Merril flung the cup and shattered it against the wall, banishing the shadowy half vision. Laughter hacked through her mind, mocking and cruel and frightening. She wasn't jealous, was she?

_**As you wish…Mistress**._

* * *

><p>"So…Carver, is it?"<p>

Carver picked his head up off the table and tried to focus on the person sitting across from him. It was that bloody apostate friend of his sister's, the one he'd said they should hand over to Templars on the first day after he'd given them the maps. They would have been able to earn the fifty sovereigns right then if they had. But no, sister had forbidden it.

"You drink almost as much as she does…is that something your family does or just you two?" Anders asked, giving him a look of careful distaste as he sipped at whatever it was he was drinking. The mage never got properly drunk, apparently his spirit wouldn't let him. Carver glared and replied, not sure why he was doing so.

"Mother and father never drank, as an apostate you can't really afford to be on anything but your toes. It's a bad habit I picked up when I enlisted in King Cailan's army…why?" The mage placed three coppers in Nora's hand and pushed another tankard of ale at him, feigning innocence.

"No reason, just curious." Carver nudged aside the empty one and picked it up, taking a drink before he could really think better of doing so. Bethany had used to put things…mostly healthful things…into his drinks when they were little. Streyga had done it too, but she was more like to try and give him magebane and see if it did anything terrible to him. Father had found out and returned the favour. His oldest sister staggering around sick as a blighted mabari for a week had been one of Carver's proudest triumphs. Childhood memories aside, mages tended to put things in people's drinks. But then, this one was already half empty and he'd didn't _feel_ any different. Maybe a little drunker.

"Blondie, if Hawke finds out, I didn't help you with this. I still don't know why I'm helping you with this."

"Because you want to know the story just as much as I do."

"Varric?" Carver shook his head and looked down at the smiling dwarf and tried to glare at him.

"So Junior, How'd you learn to use that big sword? Something they teach you in the army?"

Carver told him no, it was Father who had taught him. But only for a little while, he'd eventually gotten too good for a mage to best him without the use of magic. The memory was fond, he'd impressed father for once in his life. He'd seen the love there… Varric and Anders seemed particularly interested in father.

"What was he like? Surely he stood for mage's rights?"

"He wanted sister and Beth to be free, sure. He wasn't concerned for the others, though. Why are you…"

"Focus, Junior. What was your sister like, the little one?"

"Bethany? She was nice, not like Streyga. Quiet. A lot like mother. Father always liked teaching her mage things, lots of advice on how to hide. She could do the stuff you do," He looked at Anders and got a firm grip on the table to keep himself in an upright position. "All that healing nonsense that Sister's never been able to manage. She was my favourite sister…we were twins. Streyga called her a little ray of sunshine, soaking up all of father's love…I miss…"

"How did your father die? How did Malcolm die? Was it the templars? Demons? What happened?"

"Blondie, stop with the interrogation. You're scrambling his tiny brain."

"I don't know. I wasn't there. Just sister…she came back without him one morning. When I got back from my first training, mother and Bethany were frantic. They couldn't get her to speak, neither of them tried just smacking her over the face until she spoke to them. I did and she sent me through a wall with that force stuff she does. If mother wasn't there she probably would have killed me-"

"Did she tell you what happened, Junior?" Varric was looking more and more uneasy but Anders had a grim but determined expression on his face. It was hard to see straight to tell…maybe Carver was just imagining them being interested in whatever they had him chuntering about.

"I don't know, she just said he wasn't coming back. That's all she would say, even when Mother begged her to tell us where the body was. You were lucky to get one word out of her. She-" But they had stopped listening to him and were sitting there with solemn expressions on their faces.

"Templars?"

"That doesn't make sense, why would she help them if they killed her father? It's more likely that her father was possessed by demons." Anders shook his head, for once seeming almost empathetic. Right, because he thought father's death had had something to do with magic, he thought sister was frightened. He was wrong, Carver was sure of it.

"Father would never be possessed by demons! You don't know him!"

"I don't know, Blondie. Anyone else, I'd probably agree with you. But Hawke isn't _scared_ of possessed mages, she seems to enjoy-" Varric mouth clamped shut as the door to the Hanged Man smacked open.

"What do I enjoy? Carver, you look like you've taken a club to the head. Anders-"

"What?" He snapped before she could finish, glaring at her.

"Don't say 'what' in that ungrateful tone, I brought you some elfroot-" She smacked a fistful of leaves and clod into his chest. "And I was hoping you might pop my shoulder back in. Fenris offered but I didn't relish the thought of waking every bandit in Lowtown."

"She should have let me…be advised, mage, the joint is well out of its socket." The brooding elf frowned over his sister's shoulder. Now that Carver looked, he could see she was favouring her left arm; guarding it and using only her right to take a slug of Varric's ale.

"Beth could have done it," he offered, ignoring the stricken look on Varric's face. "it's too bad she's dead."

"Shut up and stop flogging the dead horse, Bother. Is that all anyone does these days, drink and talk about the better sister? I'd like to-" Streyga's scream was ear-splitting as Anders took her wrist and shoved hard on her shoulder, almost yanking it up behind her. There was a satisfying crunch and her shriek broke off, the elf catching her other shoulder as she dipped towards the table. Anders rubbed his hands together and sat down on the other side of Varric as Streyga swore into the table surface, clutching her shoulder.

"Thanks," She panted breathlessly between oaths, pushing her face up off the table.

"It either needs healing magic or rest, you pick one." Anders replied shortly, shaking his head in disgust.

"I'll rest when I'm dead." She retorted, rubbing her shoulder.

"If you don't start taking the advice of the _healer_, that'll be sooner than you think."

"Listen to you two, bickering like an old couple. Watch out, Broody, or Hawke might just steal Blondie from you."

"None of you rubbish, dwarf." Fenris's lip curled and he snarled across the table, one hand possessively placed on Sister's shoulder before he remembered himself and removed it sheepishly. Streyga downed some ale, making a face as she did so.

"Mmhmm, maybe I've got that backwards…"

"Varric?" Sister spoke before Fenris could snarl again, rubbing her mouth across the back of her hand.

"Yes, Princess?"

"Don't be glib, I'm in too much pain to appreciate it. How long is the walk to the Deep Roads entrance we'll be using?" She asked wearily, mumbling into her arm. Sister was almost nice in these moments, when she was too exhausted to snarl or jibe at him. Carver smiled at her stupidly before realizing she couldn't see him with her face like that.

"About a week, why?"

"Then I'll take the rest and some elf-root tea."

"You know what I mean by rest, don't you? Rest, as in the kind where you don't use that arm at all-"

"Should I also have everyone carry me around in a litter? I'm fine, Anders. Leave me be." She hissed, picking up her head to glower at him. Fenris, weird…tattoo-y elf that he was, was giving sister a concerned look. Not for the first time, Carver felt like there was something going on between them. Or that Fenris would very much welcome something to go on between them. He could see it now: lots of tiny, awkward half-elven babies who could shoot fireballs from their noses-

"Hawke, perhaps you should allow the ma-Anders to heal this injury. It is unwise to go into battle, let alone the Deep Roads, at a disadvantage." Fenris began and Carver knew before he'd even finished the sentence that his sister was going to react poorly to the suggestion.

"I'm fine-"

"Sister never accepts healings, hasn't since father died." There was a sudden, suffocating silence at the table and Streyga's gaze fixed itself on his own, blue meeting blue. For all that everyone in Lothering had exclaimed that Bethany and he looked alike, Beth's eyes had been honey coloured like father's. It was he and Streyga who shared the characteristic, dark sapphire Amell eyes. The same eyes that were glaring at him with all the menace of an angry dragon's.

"Carver, shut your bloody face."

"What? It's true. And you," Carver turned to Anders and made a sort of gesture that got away from him a little, ending with his hand smacking into the table and upsetting his empty mug. "When she says she's going to rest or get someone else to heal something, she doesn't."

"You're drunk, Bother. Do everyone a favor and be quiet about it. Now." Hawke fingers twitched into a fist and she shot her brother an ugly, sullen look.

"No, let him speak: Why won't she accept healings, Carver? Is there a reason?"

"Leave it alone, mage-" One of the earthen mugs shattered across the floor boards, startling everyone, even Carver. Fenris jumped at the sound and turned to reach for Hawke as the door to the Hanged Man slammed loudly behind her.

"Story times over, everyone." Varric sighed and pushed himself back from the table, beckoning to Anders as he went. "Come on Blondie. Let's leave Broody to bond with his future brother in law."

Fenris's ears turned red and he glowered at the table and then gave Carver one of his patented Pissy Elf looks.

"What did you tell them about Hawke?"

"That's none of your business." Carver muttered, disliking the elf's tone. It was like...it was like Fenris was disappointed in him. As though he'd done something wrong. He'd just been telling the truth, it wasn't his fault it was such a touchy subject with Streyga.

"I know if I..." Fenris paused and looked pained for a moment before continuing. "If I had a sister, I would not give her secrets away to those who would use them against her."

"Well, you don't. So bugger off." Carver finished his ale, trying not to feel so ashamed.


	6. Quarrelsome as Ever

Author's Note: Soooo this is a mini chapter, because I've been getting a few alerts and favourites but not a lot of reviews. Any review is better than no review. If you love me, PLEASE. Okay, that was desperate, but for cereal now, I love reviews. I wish I could show you the little leaping of joy I do at my desk when I get them. I have more writing for you that will be posted as soon as I get at least three reviews, okay? :D Thank you and enjoy :D!

"_She wears trouble like a crown. If she ever falls in love, she'll fall like a comet, burning the sky as she goes."_ **~ Holly Black**

Anders stood outside Gamlen's house and tried to resist the urge to pinch his nose against the smell. _At least it's a house, I suppose. _Hawke was definitely better off here than she would have been squatting in Darktown, though Anders couldn't help but feel that even if she'd been one of those to join the legions of the homeless on those Maker forsaken streets, she still would have risen above. Anders raised his hand, hesitated for a moment, then knocked firmly on the door. One gray blue eye peeked through a slat and then it carefully opened the door for him, revealing a smiling Leandra.

"Hello, my dear. Come in out of the rain." Rain? He'd barely noticed it had begun to drizzle. It was hard to imagine that this woman had raised the tattooed heathen who raced around the streets of Kirkwall causing havoc. Leandra was sweet, wholesome; the type of mother he had yearned for growing up in the Circle. Like an elegant, unmagical Wynne…who was raising her eyebrows because he still hadn't spoken or moved from her doorstep.

"I…uh, that's kind of you, really. But I just came to check on Hawke."

"She left this morning…something about a bounty and some Qunari. You can come in and wait for her." Leandra opened the door wider and beckoned graciously, still smiling.

"I wouldn't want to intrude-"

"I insist."

For such a gentle woman, she had a surprisingly firm grip as she yanked him inside and shut the door behind him. He'd only ever been to the doorstep of the place and had assumed from the smell that the interior was much worse than it actually was: the area was almost homey, warm from the hearthfire in the corner, the smell of some sort of stew cutting through the pervasive scent of cabbage and refuse. It reminded him of places he'd stayed in while on the run from the Templars, quaint but with an overwhelming feeling of safety and sanctuary. He missed that, often times the clinic was simply too open. Anders jumped as Leandra threw a clean blanket around his shoulders, toweling him lightly and tutting.

"There! That's better, isn't it?" She paused for a moment, eyeing him appraisingly. It wasn't hard to see where Hawke got her looks; even middle-aged, Leandra Hawke was a beautiful woman. Suddenly, she flushed and looked away, blinking furiously.

"Is everything alright?"

"Oh yes, dear. It's fine. You just remind me a bit of Malcolm, that's all. Would you like some stew?"

"I really-"

"Of course you would. You needn't worry, I always end up making far too much. Streyga tells me you run a clinic in Darktown?" Leandra tipped a ladle full of stew into a small wooden bowl and handed it to him, steering him to one of the chairs and plunking him down in it before he could protest.

"She's spoken about me?" That was surprising, he'd never imagined he was a topic that came up in conversation under the Hawke's roof. Leandra made a gentle affirmative sound but seemed reluctant to say more on the topic. Probably not in a pleasant context, then.

Anders finished his stew in a relatively amicable silence, impressed by the quality. Knowing the limited fare of the Lowtown market, Leandra had done an incredible job of making a palatable meal out of it. Or maybe it had simply been so long since he'd eaten real food that wasn't just a snack here and there to keep his energy up enough so he could heal. Maker, he could barely keep on his feet with a Warden's metabolism-

The door crashed open and two figures tried to shove their way inside at the same time, so spattered with mud that they were nearly indistinguishable from the grimy stone walls of Kirkwall. The brawny figure, revealing itself to be Carver as he wiped mud out of his eyes, squeezed his way inside first. Anders watched the other mud caked figure, clearly Hawke, shrink back and guard the hip that Carver had shoved against to get inside before her. The injured hip.

"Carver! Streyga! Where are your manners-" Leandra let out a shriek as Carver swooped down and wrapped his muscle bound arms around his mother, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around in a circle. Leandra let out a surprised cry that became a laugh as her son set her down on the floor again, mud smeared but beaming.

"Evening, mother!" Carver pecked his mother on the kiss with a flourish. A vile curl of envy wrapped around Anders's heart like a vine as he stood and watched the easy manner with which Carver greeted his mother. Anders could hardly remember his mother, just the vaguest impression of quick nimble fingers over a loom, limpid amber eyes and hair as gold as a field of wheat in high summer…

"Anders? What are you doing here?" Hawke's strident voice shattered the shred of memory as she squelched up beside him, grabbing his wrist and tugging. "Come on."'

"Streyga-" Leandra's pleasant expression had turned surprisingly ugly as she caught sight of her daughter, like a demon giving up the façade.

"Just be a moment, mother. Anders and I have to talk." She bustled him inside the bedroom, three bunks built into a corner and a few scattered tables and belongings. There was a trunk at the end of one of the beds, recently dragged to cover the trap door beneath. Atop it sat a three quarter's burned Chantry mourning votive, inscribed with a touch of black ink, a partially melted Y. Hawke shut the door with a snap, obscuring a scowling Carver from view.

"Alright, what do you want? Make it quick, keeping you all to myself looks rude." She refused to meet his eyes but began to step out of her boots, mud streaked white hair hanging in her eyes.

"Your hip. It should have healed by now. And your shoulder from the other night. I came to check it, make sure you're not going to die of sepsis." He watched her face carefully as she struck out an arm to support herself against the wall, the uninjured right arm. Her lips had tightened to a thin line as she straightened and looked him straight in the eye.

"No. It's not infected, Anders. You've just forgotten how long it takes something like this to heal-"

"I haven't forgotten. Prove that it isn't septic. I trust you're not so much of a stubborn fool that you'll refuse to let me heal you when you're dying."

"I reinjured it, alright? I know enough about wounds to keep away an infection, Anders. I'm not an idiot. Now get out." A flicker of guilt crossed her face and she shrank back as he advanced, guarding her hip.

"Hawke, you asked me for my help. Let me help you."

"I asked you for your help fighting, not healing. Go back to your clinic and heal the people who want it." She opened the door for him and stood there holding it, glowering. Stubborn woman!

"Fine, I'll just tell Leandra how to change a dressing-" Hawke lunged and slammed the door in Carver's face, panic showing on her face. It would have been funny if she didn't follow it up by shoving him away from the threshold.

"SISTER!" The door jumped in the frame as Carver pounded on it, Gamlen and Leandra shouting in turn.

"Shut up, Bother!" She snapped off-handedly, turning back to Anders with a sour look on her face ."For the Maker's sake, Anders. Don't tell Leandra! She'll never leave me alone."

"Ah, the only thing that can strike fear into the Mighty Hawke: Her own mother."

"Ah, bugger it all! Go! Tell her whatever you want. No, you know what, come on." Hawke grabbed him by the arm again and he yanked it out of her grasp, forgetting. Hawke muffled her his of pain and kicked the door open. It smacked Carver in the face and Leandra let out a shriek that could have shattered glass as Anders followed Hawke into the main room.

"Oi! Are you kicking my doors again, girl? I thought I told you and your bloody bunch of friends to-"

"Oh shut up, Uncle." Hawke whistled and her mabari scrambled to it's feet, disoriented and stumbling as his mistress grabbed her staff.

"Maker, you cant just leave, Streyga. You only just got home-"

"Ohhhh and what a joy it's been." She snapped wryly, whipping the staff around so fast she nearly hit Anders in the face with it. Her true intention was rapping Gamlen so hard on the knuckles he dropped the bottle of cheap ale he was holding into her waiting grasp.

"OW! You little thief-" Hawke dodged the drunken swipe and, adding insult to injury, kicked the main door open and vanished into the rain. Anders stood there for a moment, feeling both foolish and embarrassed.

"I…I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't apologise for her. See if you can convince her to come home tonight, would you? I'd be…very grateful." Leandra sighed and shook her head despairingly. Gamlen slammed a fist down on the desk and glowered.

"Flames to that! I want my bloody ale back!"

"Gamlen, hush."

Was the last thing Anders heard as he dove for the door, shutting it carefully behind him before the screaming started. It was properly dark now, the rain pouring down in sheets, leaving wide brown puddles across the square of the slum. He descended the stairs and turned the corner so quickly he nearly slammed into her.

"GAH! Hawke!" She glared at him sullenly, strands of white hair hanging in her face as the rain water washed her robes and skin clean of mud and grime. She held the bottle of ale close to her chest, the cork discarded in the mud. Theedog sat beside her, ears down as he squinted against the rain.

"Why did you come to the house?"

"I already told you. Now look, I'm going back to the clinic before I get mugged-

"Why. Did. You. Come. To. The. House." Hawke growled stubbornly, the dog snarling beside her. Anders took a small step backwards, remembering the last time he was bitten by a mabari and having no wish to repeat the experience.

"Because I care and because I was worried! Is that so wrong? Clearly, I shouldn't have bothered-"

"I thought you hated me." There was surprise in Hawke's voice, even a little confusion. She shifted from foot to foot and grimaced, taking a swig of ale.

"Look, Hawke. You should go back inside the house, you don't need to catch a cold on top of the rest of your injuries-"

"That's not a house," Hawke snapped angrily, glaring at him and stepping away from the wall. "And it's not my home. Hell, it stopped being my family when the last mage-blood member died."

"Whatever. I'm too cold and wet to fight with you right now. Why does everything have to be a confrontation?" Maker, he just wanted to go home. Why did everything with Hawke have to be agony?

"It doesn't. That was your fault. Your pushing and your nagging...speaking of nagging, I got a letter today. From that mage friendly Templar, Thrask-"

"You planning to kill him in his sleep?"

"Your funny as a barrel full of Ferelden orphans, Anders. He has a job for us, on the Wounded Coast. A mage friendly job, I'm guessing." Anders didn't know if it were the cold or the outburst that was causing Hawke to speak in such short, clipped sentences; but she looked guarded and uncomfortable as she tried to wedge herself under a crumbling overhang.

"Sounds right up your alley, hunting down apostates." _If she thinks I'm helping her she's insane._

"I'd like for you to be there. Negotiate with them. Heal Fenris and 'bela if they need it." He opened his mouth and she interrupted before he could get a word in edgewise. "We'll get cold hard coin from this, Anders. You can even have my share if you like, I've paid Bartrand what I owe on the expedition. Even you need to eat."

Anders glowered at her for a long moment, droplets of driving rain striking his face and pattering across th e stone and muck. Hawke watched him with a guarded look, rain streaming down her face and glittering like diamonds in the guttering torchlight. She looked wild as a chasind in these moments, all grim and sullen, her tattoos laced across her cheekbones like thorns. Like a real Witch of the Wilds, ready to snatch children from their beds and seduce the unwary traveler. Wild, dangerous. Apostate. Like the Maker himself had created all Anders wanted in a woman…then twisted it around, blighted it with hatred and distrust. The Maker, Anders decided, was a sadistic prick.

"Look at it this way, Anders. With you there, it'll be harder for me to kill them in good conscience."

"You have a good conscience? I've yet to see it."

"Even more reason for you to come along. Bright and early tomorrow, we're meeting at the Hanged Man." She brushed past him, the mabari at her heels pessing it's cold nose to Anders' hand as it passed. He sidestepped, turning around to watch Hawke stride off toward the tavern in question.

"I never said I'd come!"

"You will." She called back confidently, her silhouette starting to melt into the evening mist.

"And why is that?" Hawke disappeared into the gloom, darkness swallowing her up with barely a trace, leaving him to answer his own question.


	7. Kidding

**Author's Note: **Wellll I only got two reviews, but they were pretty awesome. So here's the next chapter, chronologically about Grace and the apostates from Starkhaven. Enjoy and review! :D

"_The shepard drives the wolf from the sheep's throat, for which the sheep thanks the shepard as his liberator, while the wolf denounces him for the same act as the destroyer of liberty." _**~Abraham Lincoln**

* * *

><p>"You know, I might not hunt escaped Circle mages if they didn't make it so much fun for me." Hawke declared, spinning her staff deftly into a threatening twist of circles and then tossing it to her other hand and snapping her wrist downwards so that the bladed end of her staff ended in the attack position.<p>

"This is _fun_ for you? These mage's are so desperate they've raised the dead and you have the audacity to enjoy yourself? You…you're _repulsive_!" Anders spat darkly, kicking the shattered ribcage of what had once been a possessed skeleton and storming past her. Hawke shrugged her shoulders and followed him, Fenris keeping step behind her and Isabela slinking from the shadows like a great, breasty panther.

"Repulsive is raising the dead. And yes, Anders, I'm enjoying myself. You and Justice should give this reckless joy thing a chance. Live a little and forget about the cause." She playfully bumped into his shoulder and he shot her a dirty look. A shaft of sunlight caught her white hair and made it shine in the gloom of the caverns, carefully contained in it's uncharacteristically tidy bun, a few wisps escaping to frame her dark blue eyes. She had the audacity to grin at him, on top of it all.

"The Templars caused this with their fear, it's not the mage's fault-Hawke, if you bump into my shoulder again I'm going to shove you back. This isn't a game-" She plowed into him-on purpose!-once more, looking nonplussed by his expression of black contempt.

"The Templars made me do it." She said solemnly, managing to keep a straight face as Isabela dissolved into hysterics and Fenris smiled despite himself.

"Fine. Be that way, you selfish, money-hungry, binge-drinking lunatic-" She didn't even have the grace to appear offended and was instead completely ignoring him by pretending to be otherwise occupied listening for something. Infuriating!

"Shush! I think I can hear-"

"Don't you dare shush me-" A shade burst from the ground and Anders only barely flung himself out of it's path. Hawke's face lit up like a child's on Satinalia night and she ran forward, past Anders and into the thick of the fray, coming up face to face with a rage demon. Her laughter echoed around the cavern as Fenris darted past her with a snarl and cleaved the closest shade in two.

Hawke's eyes glinted with fire as it flashed to life, enveloping her arms to the elbow as she fought the personification of wrath in front of her. It lunged and swiped at her, fiery talons coming within inches of her face as she danced backwards out of the way, paying it back with a bolt of force between it's glittering eyes. The demon roared with rage and Hawke laughed in it's face, the power at her fingertips the only thing keeping it at bay.

"I'm with you!" Isabela cried, flinging herself at a demon who's turning radius could hardly compete with the rogue's cat quick dodges. In a flurry of savage blows, the creature slumped back to earth. Anders put his back against the wall and watched them for a moment, trying to catch his breath: Fenris just charged at enemies, screaming incoherently and flinging his slender, elven frame into every attack. Isabela was a whirlwind of destruction, laughing and never in one place for more than a millisecond. All of it was seen through a haze of fire, a blue flash of concentrated force magic that smashed into a rage demon with such power the creature reeled back from the heavy handed blow. For all the loud noises and violent bursts of magic, Hawke wielded her power with skill. She was a battle mage, through and through.

That was what Anders hated most about Hawke's hypocrisy: the woman loved being a mage. She loved being an apostate, and yet she condemned the rest of them to the Circle-

"HAH!" The rage demon disappeared, popping up behind her. It had barely swept back to clout her with one of its fiery claws when Fenris's greatsword pierced through the things middle. The two of them fought well together, weaving a deadly dance between them. Anders felt a mixture of disgust, jealousy and disbelief at the display. Fenris claimed to hate mages and yet stuck to Hawke like glue…_let them have each other, _he thought angrily,_ selfish hypocrites. _

"Ugh, you're making that face again." It took Anders a moment to realize she was talking to him, turning her back as Fenris finished the final shade with a mighty blow. Her small, shapely lips twisted into a grimace and the chasind tattoos across her cheekbones curving up with the expression of distaste.

"What face?" He restored his staff to its place on his shoulders and glared at Hawke as she brushed by him, blue eyes glittering. The power of her magic prickled across his skin even dormant. The feel of another mage was as intoxicating as the touch of flesh on flesh._ No, you will not have these thoughts about Hawke. You cannot have these thoughts about Hawke. _Anders forced himself to scowl at the back of her head instead of letting his eyes wander over the way her thin waist tapered to the fine but not overly voluptuous curve of her hips-_Maker's breath, man!_

"Your stick in the mud face," Isabela piped up from the corner of the cave, jimmying the lock on a chest. "it's very unappealing."

"I'm in a bad mood."

"You're always in a bad mood-"

"Forgive me if I'm feeling guilty for forcing my fellow mages to-"

"It's not sharing time, Anders. We have touchy feely conversations over drinks…which you and your bitchy spirit refuse to attend. Look, let's track down these blood mages-" Hawke murmured, amusement(_Amusement_!) colouring her voice as she picked up one of the decaying skulls and, with the smallest exertion of force magic, crushed it in her fist. "-And then we'll-"

"We don't know that they're all blood mages!" He interrupted, kicking at one of the reanimated corpses, dead for the second time in its existence.

"They raised the dead, didn't they? That's blood magic." Hawke turned on him, her shoulders thrown back and all the playfulness of a moment before gone from her gaze. Anders felt her reach for the Fade, an action akin to setting a hand on the pommel of a blade in preparation to withdraw it from its sheath. _Don't threaten me, Little Girl._

"They're desperate, they think we're working for the Templars." He tried to appeal to her once more, but her Fade connection flared and she sneered at him. Fenris spoke before she could, a savage glower on his face.

"Desperate mages will resort to the most depraved acts to ensure their own skins remained intact. They need to be dealt with…harshly if necessary." Oh damn the elf! As if he knew anything about being a desperate mage!

"I'm not…Isabela, how can you just let this happen? You value freedom!" The rogue perked up from where she was readjusting her sash, eyebrows raised.

"While we're doing the opinion thing, I have a question. Hawke, do you think I need a bath? I think I need a bath but I'm not sure-"

"ISABELA." Anders gritted his teeth and stormed past Fenris, setting the pace as Hawke and Isabela discussed general cleanliness.

* * *

><p>"If you turn us in, don't think your own talents will go unremarked." Grace, the leader apparent to the escaped Starkhaven mages, was glaring at him. Anders felt a small twinge of irritation at this, if the woman wanted someone to blame she had only to look to an increasingly aggravated Hawke. In the space of the last two corpse related altercations, Hawke's mood had gone from effervescently cheerful to savagely irritated.<p>

"Threatening to turn me in really doesn't go with your 'all mages stick together' attitude-"

"You silly little Circle bitch," Hawke was suddenly there in front of him, her staff in one hand and the other wrapped in a fistful of Grace's robes. The feel of the Fade was fresh and powerful and writhing with promise in Hawke's grasp, enveloping Anders in it's comfortingly familiar embrace as the back-lash of Hawke's power washed over his aura. It would have been a good feeling if it wasn't so charged with her fury.

"Uh oh." Isabela breathed, her fingers twitching towards her knives as the other Starkhaven mages exchanged nervous, terrified looks. Fenris hefted his sword at one of the closest and the man shrank back, cowed and trembling.

"If you had any business being outside your Circle the Templars wouldn't have been able to track you here. That idiot-" Hawke nodded to Decimus's still cooling corpse. "-Would have slaughtered us if he had even an elementary grasp of how to properly use blood magic. If you really wanted to be free, your corpse would be lying next to his. I can still you give you that, if it's what you want. They say dying for a cause is the ultimate freedom. How about it, Circle mage? You want to live on your knees or die on your feet?"

Grace sputtered, trembling in Hawke's grasp as her hands clawed at Hawke's gauntleted wrists in an attempt to loosen her grip. Anders felt a chill; was Hawke really willing to kill this woman over a hastily muttered aside? Justice seethed at the edge of his consciousness, angry and curious.

"Let me…go…I am trying to save our lives, not fling them into the flames. We'll go with you." Hawke made a hissing sound and pushed Grace backwards into her fellows, spitting at their feet.

"A shame." Fenris rumbled under his breath, his greatsword rasping as it slid back into it's sheath.

"Threaten any of my companions again and I'll crush every bone in your pathetic body to powder, maleficarum." Hawke turned on her heel and stormed past them, nearly smacking into his shoulder as she strode by. "We'll clear the way for you. Any tricks and I'll set the Templars to hunt their own game."

"Hawke, we can't-"

"We can and we will. Thrask isn't going to kill them…and trust me when I say that's more than they deserve." Hawke hissed, getting within inches of his face.

"They deserve their freedom-"

"If you won't fight for it, you don't deserve it." Fenris crowded in on Hawke's side before Anders could snatch her elbow and make her listen to him. If he even so much as made a quick motion in Hawke's direction, the territorial elf would break his wrist and ask questions later.

* * *

><p>"Hawke, do something! Defend them! He just said he's going to kill them! Surely you can't-" Hawke stood on his foot with the heavy leather boots she was wearing.<p>

"Do what you must, Ser Karras." The Templar tossed her a pouch of gold that jingled as she caught it, studiously avoiding Anders's furious gaze as she did so. Grace and her fellow mages looked horrified as the Templars fell into formation around them, leading them away, Thrask assuring them he would dissuade Meredith and Hawke standing there with her arms crossed.

"Hawke, we can take them-"

"You want to end up in the Gallows, go ahead and start tossing bolts of ice around." She hissed back, leaning against the sun warmed stones at the mouth of the cave and taking a swig of a bottle of Antivan brandy Isabela had discovered. The sun glinted off the Templars armour as they descended the hill, Justice railing against the unfairness of it all.

"Well?" Hawke asked, smiling wickedly. "Are you going to take the moral high ground or save your own skin?"

He wanted to hit her, or at least trap her legs in a foot thick block of ice. Goad him, dare him, bait him like he was some sort of slavering fanatic. He _wanted_ to save Grace and the others…but if Hawke wasn't bluffing, if she didn't come to his aid against the small army of Templars who'd come to escort the escapees to the Circle…he couldn't risk it, not when there was so much he could do to help mages outside the Circle's walls. And he'd never go back, he'd rather die.

"I hope the extra coin was worth it to you."

"Every copper goes to the good cause of keeping my arse free of the Circle and full of as much Rivaini rum as I can guzzle. Do you want your share now or when we get back to Kirkwall?" There was practiced coldness to her voice, daring him to lose his temper. To prove to her and to himself that mages were volatile, that he really was just an Abomination.

"I'm not taking a Templar's coin for this. Would it have been so hard for you to let them go?" Hawke took another swig of the brandy and passed it to Isabela, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and shaking her head.

"Of course not. I could have convinced those Templars that I'd slaughtered the lot of them. But what good would it do? They'd have caught them inside of a week and I'd have lost any good standing I'd gained with Cullen." Hawke scoffed as Isabela passed the bottle back to Fenris, who went to take a swallow and then shot the cheeky pirate a dirty look before chucking the empty bottle over his shoulder.

"You can't know that."

"Whatever. We're done talking about it. Take your share and use it to buy supplies for your clinic." She chucked him two sovereigns and they skidded across the sand at his feet, glinting poisonously in the sunlight. He bent and took them, Justice twisting in his mind like a writhing snake. _For the Clinic, then at least her blood money will help someone_. Maybe he'd donate it to the Mage Underground. Hawke nodded and turned to follow the path the Templars had taken, asking Fenris something in Tevinter that made him chuckle and hold out a clawed gauntlet to her.

Anders struggled to follow their conversation with Justice calling for retribution so loudly it made his blood pound in his ears and the urge to rip someone's head off just for some peace and quiet almost impossible to resist. Arcanum wasn't a hard language to learn and he could certainly read it, but Fenris's accent and Hawke's stilted pronunciation made it difficult to follow. He had to infer from the smug tone and Hawke's indignant and dodgy replies what the line of conversation was.

"-Vas debitirem, amicara meheus." _You…_something he couldn't quite catch to grasp the meaning of, then the female for _my friend_. Though, if he remembered correctly, _amicara_ had more familiar connotations. Flirtatious, even. _Ugh, terrific._

"Fasta vas," The insult the elf used with such vehemence was lightly spoken by Hawke, casual and playful. "Ego vocere nullos Medicina, ipse nunquam assentium monepentia. Meheus culpa."

"Etiam nunc debitirem," _You still…debt._ Anders couldn't help the frustrated sound of outrage that escaped his lips.

"You took bets on whether or not I would accept this?" The meaning of debiterem finally struck him and he glowered furiously at the back of their heads. Hawke groaned and her head fell against Fenris's shoulder.

"That's what they were saying?" Isabela shook her head disappointedly, sighing. "My version was much more interesting. The 'ass' bit in assentium was giving me all sorts of ideas- "

"If nothing else, Abomination, Hawke thought more highly of you then I. She didn't think you would take it." Fenris sneered uncharitably over his shoulder, one hand on the small of Hawke's back.

They look down on him, they think he's a wild raving fanatic. They have no idea what it's like, what he went through. Hawke leans against her elf and preaches strength and yet she knows nothing of it! She was never in the Circle, she never knew what it was like! She walks free, proud and noble and she has paid nothing for it. No tithes of blood and humiliation and pain; Hawke was not a woman who had had to bend.

"It's a lucky thing you never ended up in the Circle, Hawke. You'd never survive it." It his head, it is a good comeback. A vicious and glorious triumph that for a moment it seems like Fenris might try and make him pay for. But then Hawke chuckles, barely glancing back at him as she keeps a tense Fenris moving forward with a soft tug at his gaunlet.

"You're right. I never could get the hang of groveling for mercy and begging for my life."

"Do you think that's funny? What every Circle mage has to do just to survive? Is that why you send them back, because it amuses you?" Justice was seething inside his breast, pacing like a tiger in a cage. Hawke kept walking for a moment more in silence, the only sign of her irritation was the way she flexed the fingers of her left hand and then balled them back into a fist.

"Of course it does. I'm a big scary witch of the wilds who eats children and consorts with demons and fucks darkspawn. I sharpen my teeth with bones and bathe in blood. Oooooh! Look out, Anders! Throwing a few mages back where they belong is the least of the terrible, evil things I do." Hawke glared at him, a challenge in her eyes and a smile on her lips.

"Don't be stupid, Hawke. What makes you and I better than those Starkhaven mages?"

"Nothing." She sniffed, turning to face him. She walked backwards, her boots scuffing in the sand as Isabela and Fenris moved a ways away, the pirate rolling her eyes and the elf shooting him a poisonous glare. Even backwards, Hawke moved with predatory confidence, her dark blue eyes sharp and fierce as shards of sapphire.

"Then how can you justify throwing them in the Circle if we get to be free?" He growled at her, watching her lips twist and skin back over her teeth in distaste.

"They threw themselves in the Circle, Anders. You're just too blind to see it." Cold, careless loathing is in her voice. Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Justice insists she is a demon. Or that she is at the very least like one. Hate for hate's sake, wrath for wrath's sake. So full of unreasoning pride…it is the only thing she can be.

"Too blind, am I? I came from the Circle, I fought my way free and _you_-" She's angry now, making a sharp cutting motion with a hand crackling with fire as she refuses to let him finish his condemnation.

"Freedom! Circle mage freedom is a legacy of dependence! You got free and gave up your liberty to some spirit! All Circle mages can do is panic and then get furious, they rely on desperation instead of Maker given sense! I'm sick of these dead-end conversations, Anders. We are free mages, they were not."

"They were while they were out from under the Templar's yoke! They can be taught-"

"Damn it. Fenris," Hawke shouted, "please tell me there's alcohol in one of those backpacks or I'm going to smash my brains out with a rock for some bloody peace and quiet."

"You're despicable." He spat, resisting the urge to strike her only with supreme force of will.

"And you're annoying." She retorted, though some of the fire seemed to have gone out of her when she did.

Anders stormed past her, furiously marching away. He heard Hawke tell Fenris to 'let him go' and bitterly regretted he didn't have an excuse to loose Justice on the smarmy elf. Anders was _done, he didn't have to keep working with this arrogant Templar thrall who called herself a mage. Next time she demanded his presence, he'd be busy._

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><p><strong><span>Arcanum Translation:<span>**_  
><em>

_Vas debitirem, amicara meheus. - _You owe me, my friend_.  
><em>

_Ego vocere nullos Medicina, ipse nunquam assentium monepentia. Meheus culpa. -_ I didn't talk about the Clinic, he'd never have agreed to take the coin. My fault._  
><em>

_Etiam nunc debitirem - _You still owe me.

Note on Arcanum: Mostly I derived from latin, but some of it's been changed to sound better/snazzier. Hawke's translations will always be rougher than Fenris's, so the poor grammar? Intentional. XD_  
><em>


	8. Vengeance & Cowardice

**Author's Note:**Whooo, another chapter. :D And I love the two quotes(Bonus quote chapter! Sqqquuuueee, mostly because I love owls and the quote was appropriate for at least part of this chapter. But really, OWLS.) at the beginning of this one. Thanks so much to Falconflight and Billiam Cousland for the awesome reviews! More Varric next chapter. Hopefully, this clears up some schtuff about Hawke. It's off to the Deep Roads we go after this, folks.

First for mages:

_"If you are unwilling to defend your right to your own lives, then you are merely like mice trying to argue with owls. You think their ways are wrong. They think you are dinner."_ **~Terry Goodkind**

And lastly for our crazy lady Hawke and Anders:**  
><strong>

_"I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am so utterly lonely... and yet I am in great terror of your understanding; that by which you penetrate into my world; and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you." ~ _**Anais Nin**

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><p>Anders was dreaming…almost a real dream, too. Not like the nightmares filled with darkspawn or the Fade dreams with only Justice as company. He was at Kinloch Hold once more, sitting in one of the comfy armchairs in First Enchanter's personal library. Earyn was perched on the back of an armchair across from his, her elbows on her knees and a brilliant smile on her tiny, elven face. As adorable and as red-headed and cheeky as she had been before the Rite of Tranquility, as the day he'd last seen her hale and whole.<br>"Hello, Anderfels." She chirped, smiling down at him.  
>"I'm dreaming." It was a stupid thing to say, but it was the only thing he could think of that might banish the vision. It didn't. She still sat there, one eyebrow raised and that ridiculous smile on her face.<br>"So what? We're mages, dreams are what we do. Didncha miss me at all? Karl says you only talk to Vengeance now. He says hi, by the way." She pushed herself up on her arms and plopped down in the armchair proper, then proceeded to lounge across it fetchingly.  
>"Karl. I failed Karl, I was too late. After everything we'd been through…they made him Tranquil, just like you. Maker, Ryn, I'm so sorry-" The little elf snorted, rolling her eyes.<br>"What happened to me wasn't your fault, Anderfels. It wasn't anybody's fault, not even Jowan's. Besides, it happened a long time ago. Forget about it." Ryn squirmed around in the chair, utterly incapable of sitting still, just as she'd been in life. Anders felt himself smile despite the fact that this was all just a figment of his imagination. It couldn't be real. But it was nice to think about, all the same. "And to be honest, Karl didn't just say 'hi'. There was a bunch of other stuff I can't remember, about not blaming yourself. Karl, I swear…living with him again is like living in a sepulcher. Oh! And he tells me you've got a lady friend! A lady friend who just happens to be Kalen's cousin? Small world, small world…and a mage too, isn't she?"  
>"Hardly. She's a Templar in a mage's body. A despicable hypocrite…she asked if there was a cure for being made Tranquil, for the Maker's sake!" Finally situated, Ryn lay upside down in the chair, hands clasped in her lap and ankles propped against the back of it. She tapped her chin with a forefinger, an exaggerated gesture of consideration.<br>"Well, she has been an apostate her whole life. How's she supposed to know?" Anders felt a flare of annoyance with the difficult little elf, this was exactly how she'd been when he'd known her.  
>"How does she not know? Her father lived in the Circle, he must have told her!"<br>"Knowing and being told are two entirely different things, Anderfels." She clasped her ankles and tucked her head into her chest, somersaulting out of the chair and flopping on to the carpet. She swiveled and leaned back against it, grinning. "That's better."  
>"Ignorance doesn't excuse her, Ryn."<br>"Maybe, maybe not. I'm sure she has a perfectly good reason or two why she is the way she is. You shouldn't hold it against her. Does she like elves, at least?" Ryn plucked at a stray bit of embroidery across her robes, pulling at the length of thread and unraveling it slowly.  
>"Exceedingly."<br>"Well there. She can't be all bad, then. Give her a chance." Ryn hopped to her feet, rubbing her nose and yawning. "Well, I'm off. Templar's put me on dish duty again. I should be able to weasel out of it, if I can flirt my way up and down Lieutenant Cullen. Wish me luck, Anderfels."  
>"Why is it that even in my dreams, you're not free?" He pleaded, feeling the vision slip as she headed towards the door.<br>"Free? I've always been free. The Circle is my home…why would I ever want to leave it?" Her last words echoed in his mind as he awoke. And still did hours later, when he had a few moments between patients and was lazily sketching a portrait of the little elven mage in one of his grimoires. Her petite face, with its delicate little nose and the large, expressive eyes…the rosebud lips always quirked into a childish smile…  
>And they'd made her Tranquil, the bastards. She'd never rebelled, not meaningfully. She'd never, ever done anything wrong. Except be born a mage. She'd passed her Harrowing, if it wasn't for the nonsense with Jowan and the blood magic…she'd only been trying to help.<br>_"You promise to be strong for them, Anders? For Kalen and…all the rest?"_  
><em>"I don't understand, what's happening? Why are you talking like this? Ryn, what's wrong-"<em>  
><em>"Hush, Anderfels. Cullen said I could only have a minute here, just make the damn promise. Tell me you'll stay out of trouble."<em>  
><em>"I'm always in trouble, you know I can't promise-"<em>  
><em>"Anderfels! Just promise you'll do the best you can. Don't be scared, alright? And if you ever escape, promise me you'll-"<em>  
>And he'd never gotten to hear what she wanted him to do once he escaped the Circle, because a Templar had dragged her away from the door and there was too much shouting for him to understand what she was saying. And all he could do was shout for them to wait, that they needed to <em>wait<em>. What was happening to her? He deserved to know what was happening, where they were taking her. _Damn them, I deserved to know. I deserved to say goodbye._ Anders gritted his teeth and stared down at the sketch of tiny little Earyn Surana, fingers numbly adding in some shading around the curves of her pointed ears.

"I didn't know you could draw, Anders." The bit of charcoal in his fingers snapped and he fumbled to shut the book, turning around and coming face to face with the bane of his existence. For a moment, he thought of how he would draw Hawke, if he was doing so from memory. A snarl on those wicked lips, the stark outline of the Chasind tattoos detailed across the high cheekbones, the harsh swoop of her jaw and the cold blue eyes. The face of a villain, the face of a Templar. The face of the enemy.

"Hawke. Did you want something or did you just come in here to taunt me?" Streyga bristled at that, glaring at him and folding her arms over her chest defensively. As if she had any right to be defensive, as if he were attacking her!

"Oh yes, right. Sorry. I forgot. Why would we treat each other like human beings-" She hissed, her voice sharp with sarcasm.

She was wearing an apostate's garb instead of her robes, tight leggings that clung to her long legs and fingerless gloves that reached halfway to her elbows. She looked like a typical mercenary, if it weren't for the undeniable flicker, the spark in her eyes, even narrowed in annoyance as they are that betrays her magic to him at least. The Templars may never see it, mooning after her like they do(More than once, he's noticed that bastard Cullen, so fond of Earyn before the Rite, look at Hawke with something more than admiration. With heat. It was _vile_.), but he can. He turned away from her then, retreating towards the back of the Clinic. Anyone decent would take that as a signal to leave him alone; but of course she doesn't, her steps ringing across the stone.

"Oh, counting yourself among the human beings now, are you? Where did you find your empathy-" No, he wouldn't be driven away from what he was doing, Maker damn her! He yanked the chair out away from the table and plunked himself back down, trying not to let her looming disconcert him.

"Dead in an alley. Knifed in the back by my common sense because she was making too much of a fuss. How's Justice? You let him out to feast upon any young Templars recruits yet?" She wanted to trade barbs with him? Fine!

"If only it were that easy. Now, tell me what you want and get the Void out of my clinic, Hawke." She clamped her mouth shut and glared at him, a muscle twitching her jaw as she struggled to hold back what was no doubt a string of oaths.

"Actually, I came to ask you if you would accompany me on the Deep Roads expedition." She replied coolly, surveying the clinic with an air of thinly veiled distaste. _She's mad, completely insane. Or otherwise just mocking me._ He turned in his chair, closing the grimoire with a snap and folding his arms over his chest.

"You want me to come into the Deep Roads with you? Why?"

"Why not?" Streyga eyed the shut grimoire with a curious look, practiced indifference in her voice. Oh no, he wasn't falling for that. She had no friendly, cordial reason to want to spend upwards of a month in a darkspawn infested hole with him. Except maybe to delight in how miserable such a venture would make him.

He stood, disliking the feeling of having his back to her. No, _Justice_ dislikes the feeling of Hawke at their back. **Selfish**. **Lying**. **False.** Anders pulls at the back of his neck and steps past Hawke-she's too close, she must have learned the intimidation technique from the Templars themselves-and tries to free himself of the spirit's angry musing. It's rare when he can actually hear Justice and the feeling is nearly as unwelcome as Hawke's presence. _She brings out the very worst in me..._

"I suppose it doesn't matter." He muttered stiffly, turning his back on her. She followed him deeper into the clinic, her steps quickening as she tried to match his stride; shoving aside any patients unfortunate enough to be in her path.

"What do you mean 'it doesn't matter'? I need you there, Anders." Her voice had taken on that tense, frigid tone that reminded him so much of the Warden Commander that it sent shivers down his spine. If it weren't for the merciful fact that Hawke's accent was distinctly Ferelden and not Dalish he'd probably wince every time she spoke. He turned on his heel and she nearly smacked into him, the anger in her expression turning to surprise.

"Well, need someone else. All the money in Thedas wouldn't be enough to get me to set one foot in the blighted Deep Roads again for as long as I live-"

"Anders, I broke into the Chantry for you. For your friend, Kyle or whatever his name was and you're telling me that you won't-"

"Karl! And you didn't do that for me, you did that for the blighted maps! It's an insult to his memory that you even pretend you gave a damn about him, or about any of the other mages you've condemned to the Circle! Do you really think you can just waltz in here and try to guilt me into going back to the Deep Roads? Why don't you take your slave down there with you-"

She moved fast, so fast he didn't see it coming: One minute she was standing there glaring at him and the next he was cradling his stinging cheek. She'd come at him before, but a few lyrium addled punches could be forgiven. This was different; she'd hit him and she'd meant it. Justice flared to life somewhere in his psyche and he frantically slammed up mental barriers to try and keep the spirits pervasive presence from overwhelming his defenses. The last thing he needed was to fly into a rage at Hawke, as much as he wished to.

"Really, Hawke? Hit me again and see what happens-"

Maybe he would have unleashed Justice just a little if they were alone, without the scant few refugees who help him with patients looking around nervously. It's far too risky to let himself fly off the handle, even if they were all now scurrying furtively towards the exits; casting terrified looks back over their shoulders at Hawke. They knew she was a mage and had quickly learned that she didn't heal. That she was of a very, very different ilk to himself. Magic to help, magic to destroy. She relished it, too. That she could send them running with one vicious, taunting smile that screamed '_fear me, my magic will not serve_'. Anders yearned to pay her back in kind, Hawke deserved a healthy dose of fear. _It might teach her respect._ And then Anders realised how wrong that was, how like the Templars, and it made him hate himself.

"Possessed by a spirit and you still have the _audacity_ to call Fenris a slave-"

"Slaves! Mages are slaves! Surely if you're against slavery you're against-" She interrupted him, flames flashing up her arms, fists bunched and back ramrod straight as her blue eyes flash with fury.

"Yes, you're right; I don't give a damn about poor tranquil dead Karl. Or any of the other Circle mages, for that matter. Or you're Andraste be buggered by the Magisters, Maker forsaken whining. Why? The only thing your good at is being a victim, is playing the poor and defenseless mage! Why do you think it takes barely two hundred Templars to hold a circle of three thousand mages? They don't fight, the only thing mages do is talk and cower. The only thing mages can do is run and turn on each other when they feel threatened. Mages are weak." She snarled, her lips curled in a way that made the clawed tattoos on her cheekbones arch like thorns and lent a vile sort of menace to her ugly expression of scorn. "Don't you dare call Fenris a slave when those mages you ally yourself with are more feeble-minded than the most abused slave in Tevinter. The Circle is your Harrowing, Anders, and if you don't get out and stay out and mind your own damn business than you don't deserve to be free. Then you don't want to be free."

Maker, she is wrong. He just wants to grab her and choke the treasonous words from her throat. She doesn't just put mages in the Circle because she's allegedly helping them, she does it because she _hates_ them. Part of him wonders why and part of him doesn't care. She's closer enough to touch, close enough to kill. One bolt of electricity magic in the right place on her heaving chest, the right concentration, and they can stop her heart. They can kill this **demon who stands in the WAY OF ALL FREE MAGES**- _No, no._ Anders grits his teeth, Hawke will never know how close she came to becoming a victim of Justice.

"Bullshit. Tyrannical bullshit! And you just eat it up-" He shook her by the shoulders, hard enough to rattle her teeth. Hawke glowered and struggled against his tight hold, but he didn't loosen it. He has to fight Justice just to keep from trying to break her neck.

"You're a stubborn ass, Anders. You think you can prove me wrong? Fight with me, instead of against me. Stop whining and start thinking like an apostate! Help save lives in the Deep Roads-" Ha! As though Hawke cared about anyone but herself!

"Like the Void I will! This is your bloody expedition-"

"I bet the old Anders would have done it-" He wanted to throw back his head and laugh at that. Anders before Justice had been selfish, unconcerned with the mages plight. With anyone's cares but his own.

"You know nothing about me! The old Anders would have fled. The old Anders didn't care-**WE ARE BETTER THAN HE IS, WE ARE UNSELFISH**-" Anders heart hammered, Justice was beginning to crowd him out. No, don't! Anders had no faith in Justice maintaining whatever amounted to a 'cool head' around hot-tempered, hypocritical Hawke. And the silly woman wasn't even backing down-

"Unselfish? Yes, an unselfish being would never beg a host from a mage who didn't know any better. You know what, Vengeance? Screw you, that's what. You're no better than a demon-" NO! Wresting control from a furious Justice was like trying to struggle out from under a landslide. As it was, his body lunged forward and his hands fixed themselves around Hawke's neck. Her mindblast was enough to knock him backwards, skidding across his desk and slamming into a pillar. Anders lay there gasping for a moment, trying to recover his breath. Trying to wrangle Justice back into whatever cage in his psyche the spirit resided within, pacing, clawing, furious at being denied.

"Anders? Anders! Are you-" Hawke looked a little pale despite herself, straightening her tunic and clearing her throat. "-is that you? Did I hurt you?"

"You're so stupid. What were you thinking baiting him? I could have killed you-" _I **should** kill you-enough! No, we're not killing Hawke. She's misguided, not evil. _Justice disagrees. But then, Justice cant see that, beneath all the snarling and the hate and the spiteful words; Hawke is human. There was real concern in her voice when she knocked him back, even though he'd tried to kill her. Justice doesn't understand what it means to see her trembling, covering the bruises that he'd made with those bare few seconds of force. _She's afraid. _All the spirit can see is the ferocity in her gaze and the hardness in the twist of her lips. _Hate and fear._

"Because fuck him, that's why. Your life is none of his damn business, your choices are yours. Next time, let him come at me. I'll hit him so hard the Maker'll feel it." She snapped, her voice cracking as she stumbles back against the edge of an exam table, clutching her temples.

"Look, I'm asking you to help me fight darkspawn, not slay mages. You could save our lives down there. I really..." Hawke's confident voice became reedy, desperate even. Enough that Justice can tell and shares Anders's confusion, is disconcerted by the wet shine suddenly in Hawke's eyes as she blinks furiously. "...this wasn't how I planned to... Oh, damn it!"

It's not a sob. Just a choked kind of sucking of breath, ragged and sharp. More of a cough, really. All Anders can be certain of is that the inhalation/exhalation-whatever it is-is full of pain. Good, she should feel pain. The thought is spiteful and wholly his own. Still, seeing Hawke break, even fractionally, is upsetting in the extreme. Like he's witnessing something that should be private. Comforting her just seems ludicrous, he _is_ angry with her, after all. For now, silence is the only acceptable response. Hawke makes another coughing sound, this one less agonized but still wavering on emotional brink. _How can me trudging down to the Deep Roads be worth this to her?_ Slowly, Hawke's hand comes away from her face and she takes one normal, shuddering inspiration and shuts her eyes briefly before meeting his own.

"I...sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't want to fight with you, really. I don't mean..." Is she going to say I don't mean it? I don't mean to be cold and heartless and completely uncompromising? Hawke fights for the rest of her sentence, the words strangling in her throat. Finally, she says something that doesn't even pertain to the apology: "Carver. I'm bringing Carver to the Deep Roads with me and I'm...it makes me...anxious. It was stupid of me to expect you to-"

She's scared for him, for her brother. She can't heal and she doesn't want him to end up as cold and dead as Bethany. Now it makes sense...some of it, anyway.

"Hawke, if you're worried about Carver why even bring him in the first place-" For a moment before her gaze sharpens, Hawke looks unspeakably vulnerable. Then the candid expression is gone and she looks untouchable again, angry.

"I cant just leave him behind. He's my brother."

"He'd be safer here-" Even as he says it, Anders knows it's not necessarily true. It wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibility that Carver fell prey to less fantastical predators than darkspawn if left to his own devices in Kirkwall.

"Damn it, Anders! Don't be such a cowar-" The Hawke he hated was back full force, it seemed. But she caught herself before she could finish it, biting back the words too late. To think he was starting to feel _sorry_ for her.

"Don't be a coward? Brave words coming from a woman whose too scared to even heal so much as a paper cut." Hawke went white as a sheet, her complexion just a shade darker than her hair. That had been a low blow, personal. More of an attack than her almost calling him a coward. She knew he wasn't, it was just something you said when you were angry. And then he'd gone and said _that_. "Hawke, wait-"

"You're right. Or Vengeance is. Whoever told me that I know nothing about you. But you don't know anything about me, either. So don't ever-" Her breath caught but she managed to fight away the hesitation by making it sound like emphasis. "-_ever_ go there again. We're leaving tomorrow. Hightown, in front of the Merchant's Guild. Be there, or don't. What do I care?"

She does care, more than she'll ever admit. Anders stayed silent and watched her turn on her heel and then turn back, all the fighting and fury and wildness that made her Hawke in the look she gave him.

"Goodbye, Anders." There was a finality to it. This was a true goodbye. If he didn't show up tomorrow, if he chose not to come on the expedition, she'd never plague him again. He'd never have to put up with her mood swings, with Varric pestering him for story material, with Fenris's glaring and drinking and spitting, with silly little Merril's blithe ignorance, Aveline's pigheaded refusal to see the shades of gray in anything, Isabela's flirting, Carver's idiocy...the thought should have been a relief. He could be alone, free to heal and work on his manifesto. But all it left him with was a feeling of bleak emptiness...

The door to the clinic shut with a slam that made him jump. Gone, Hawke was gone. And any chance of him ever understanding what made her tick, what made her so very frightened of a little harmless creation magic went with her. And something...else. It took him a moment to realise what he missed was the absence of Hawke's dormant magic, the impossibly subtle, intimate and familiar brush of her power against his own.

_I think that's what I'll miss the most..._

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><p>Deep Roads is the next chapter...or two. Hopefully one, but it'd be loooooong. Just felt like stuffing it into this segment wasn't the right 'mood'. Review, please please please 3 :D<p> 


	9. Departure

**Author's Note:** So wheee next chapter! Thanks so much to Falcon, Laurannebp for their reviews and to Caralina and BlkMagickWomyn for the alert subscription, really it means a lot and keeps me writing! :D Next chap will be full on Deep Roads, would have been too overwhelming for this chap, I think. Also, Varric's POV gives me trouble XP I apologise for any derpness in quality on my part. Enjoy!

_"__You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it."_** ~ J.K. Rowling****  
><strong>

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><p>"Sister! Sis-ter!" Hawke rubbed her forehead and turned at the sound of Bethany's voice, wiping her bloody hands on a flannel. She was back in Lothering, standing in the kitchen and chopping something-rabbit-into strips for the stew. A bit of blood dripped down her sweaty face and she rubbed it away with the heel of her hand as Beth entered the kitchen. She looked so lovely…Streyga felt a twinge of jealousy.<p>

Bethany was curvy and delicate at the same time, blessed with ebony hair that fell to her shoulders in dark waves. The kind of bust many women would kill for…she had countless admirers. Bethany and Carver actually looked like Malcolm and Leandra…Streyga hated that. Allegedly, she looked like the grandmother she'd never met. Fair-haired, dark blue eyes and a fierce, cold prettiness. But not beautiful, not like Bethany. Beauty, Leandra said, was something that was felt and heard more than it was seen. Hawke would have preferred if her mother had just been honest, the jab at her attitude was just a low blow.

"Sister," Bethany hopped up onto the counter next to a pile of rabbit intestine, idly running her fingers through the glittering innards. "Is this what I looked like when I died?"

"No. I burned your body. We had time enough for that before going to Gwaren." Leandra and Carver hadn't liked that one bit, they'd wanted her buried someplace pretty. Where, though? Where the hell was pretty after the Darkspawn got through with it? No, better, faster, safer to burn Bethany to ash, let the wind blow what was left of her all over Thedas if it wanted. Carver'd still hit her for it, though. Punched her right in the jaw so hard she'd had a headache for two days afterwards. Bugger him. He never had to make the tough decisions. Between hanging around giving Beth a proper burial and surviving to trek to Gwaren in time…well, she'd made the only sensible choice.

Streyga peeled the flesh of the rabbit back from it's musculature, fingers slippery with gore. She didn't want to have this dream, even if it was a real dream and not a mere wander through the Fade. She wanted to dream of father, or being a tiny child again and of golden grasses and crunchy dead leaves and the sweet smell of earth. Of Lothering before the Blight, of Leandra back when she'd still called her 'mother' and meant it. Dreaming of stupid dead Bethany was just repetitive-Streyga froze, feeling a sudden warp of panic as she looked down at what she was skinning, peeling the flesh off Bethany's face...

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><p>Hawke bolted upright, gasping air as her fingernails dug into the moist floorboards. She pressed her forehead to her knees and panted desperate gasps, too shaken to really let the pain of her sore body register. The panic even cut through the fuzzy, sticky, achey hang over feeling. She was on the floor, Varric's suite. She'd had bad dreams earlier as well, came here, drank, fell asleep, had the bad dreams again. Always with the nightmares, always with the pain no matter how hard she tried to escape it. Sleeping through the night is just getting harder.<p>

Fenris is dozing in one of the chairs around Varric's low table, back bent and his head resting on his arms. Hawke carefully creeps up to sit in one of the chairs closest to him and watches, envying his peacefulness. She's seen him sleep before, on the occasions where they've had to camp out because they couldn't make it back to Kirkwall before dark. He always sleeps through the night, his expression childishly blank, brow unfurrowed, his lyrium bleached hair tickling the bridge of his nose as he sprawls. _Was there ever a time when I slept that well?_ Bad dreams, it was just another curse of being a mage. She leaned over the table and set her chin against her elbows, trying to resist the urge to drift off staring at him. She's exhausted, but she wont let herself be lulled back to sleep when Maker knows she'll just dream about it all over again.

_Too scared to even heal a paper cut…_

Hawke shuddered and pressed her face into the crook of her elbow. Anders was probably awake by now, even though it was early. Apparently, that was a side-effect of being a warden. Your sleep was plagued by nightmares and you needed less of it as time went on. _Good, I hope he never gets any sleep. The bastard. _It was a wicked thought, but that didn't make it any less honest. If she ended up holding Carver's dead body in her arms…she was going to come back and kill him. Her fists clenched and she shook with the conviction of it. _That doesn't make any sense, it wouldn't actually be his fault that Carver died. _But then part of her felt like it would…she'd asked him and he'd denied her. That was his right. She'd given him a choice; either he'd be there today or he wouldn't. Then it would be her choice to kill him if anything happened to her brother.

Hawke swore softly and pressed her forehead to the table. She was exhausted, too exhausted to be thinking so hard about this. _It _would _be his fault, for not being there to_-she needed a drink. Hawke pushed out the chair and rose to stand, wincing at the stiffness in her limbs as she moved towards the-a clawed gauntlet caught her wrist and it was all she could do not to yelp in pathetic panic.

"Hawke, bene manea." Fenris rumbled quietly, leaning back in the dwarven chair and pulling at the back of his neck. Fenris…the pure and simple relief she felt just that he was there. Strong, decisive, fierce as the wolf that was his namesake. Always by her side and never quibbling with her over morality, never picking apart her every decision. Never snapping that she should support mages because she was one. He gazed up at her through a fringe of white hair, dark green eyes still warm and foggy from slumber.

"Bene manea, Fenris." Saying the words, even if they weren't in her mother tongue, made her feel more at ease. Good morning. Perhaps, if Anders wouldn't come, she could bring Fenris. Surely the warrior would have no problem watching out for Carver-_but he wont, and you know it. _

After years of being a body guard for a Magister, it came naturally to Fenris to guard a mages back. Mage's were inherently weak, unable to take as much physical punishment as a warrior and not blessed with the savvy quickness of rogues. Countless times during battle, when push came to shove, Fenris was guarding _her _back when he should have been focused on an overwhelmed Isabela or a fenced in Aveline. And Fenris, for all his sterling, bristling, ferociously attractive manliness-_where the Void did that come from?-_couldn't heal mortal wounds with a thought.

"…Hawke? Is something wrong?"

"I…" _Well, you see, I was panicking about taking my brother to the Deep Roads. Then I was suddenly and irrationally taken with just how incredibly pretty you are. Oh Maker. All this anxiety will be the end of me_. "I just…would you like a drink?"

"In the morning?" Oh yes, glorious. Now even bloody _Fenris _thought she was a hopeless lush.

"You're right. I'm just feeling twitchy. Forget I asked." Hawke struggled with the irrational urge to hit him. It was a struggle she wouldn't have had if it were Anders asking her the same thing. She'd just have hauled off and socked him right in his stubbly jaw. She couldn't help it; if she bottled up all that frustration and anger it'd either express itself in tears or a roaring inferno. Neither of those were acceptable, especially the little sobby tears. And definitely not in front of Anders, bad enough that the man hated her, he didn't need a reason to think she was pathetic and weak as well. Telling him about Bethany, letting him see how scared she was…that had been a mistake. Yes, better to hit him than let him see how much his glares and snarling got to her.

But then, if Anders never showed up…well, she'd never have to bruise her knuckles on his face again? That was something. She'd never have to catch him glowering at her and Fenris from the corner of her eye, never again have to explain her every action until she was blue in the face. It would be a relief, wouldn't it? Maker take it all, how was that even a question. Of course she would be-

"Broody, Princess. Hope I'm not interrupting anything." Varric murmured wryly from the vicinity of her elbow. Hawke had been so caught up in thinking about Anders that she hadn't even felt the way Fenris's hand was still cradling her wrist, or seen the look he was giving her. All of which abruptly disappeared at the dwarf's suggestion, before she'd gotten more than a fleeting chance to relish them.

"You're a nosy little fiend, Varric." Hawke groaned and shot him a dirty look that had no effect whatsoever as he chuckled, carefully packing away a small rectangle box that held his quill and some folded parchment.

"What have you been writing, dwarf?"

"Never you worry your pointy little ears about that, Broody. Now, let's go wake up Junior." Hawke made a soft sound of despair and followed them out.

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><p>The morning we were to leave for the Deep Roads dawned bright and clear across Hightown, glinting off the bronze statues that marked the Merchant's Guild district. I wouldn't have called the mood calm though, or even mildly festive. Nor even the two things Hawke did well when it came to setting tones: violent or mocking. It was just tense as Hawke stood with her arms crossed, glaring at the hirelings as they loaded things onto their wagons. At her feet was her pack, scuffed and full of holes Leandra'd tried to patch. She'd chosen a sturdy looking stave as her weapon for the venture, wearing the casual short robes and leggings she could get away with and still not look like an obvious apostate. The very same pair of robes that made Broody walk into pillars and trip over small children because he was too busy drooling.<p>

"You alright, Hawke?" I asked in an undertone, sidling up next to her and discreetly glancing at whatever sight had her so sullen. Junior was there, flexing his muscles as he ostentatiously helped load some crates of supplies into a cart. Oh.

"Carver's coming with us." She murmured, arms folded over her chest.

"You could make him stay, take care of Leandra." Even as I suggested it, I knew Hawke'd never go for it. The Hawke children might fight like a pair of rabid nugs, but deep down, they loved each other. Way deep down. Down all the way to their little Hawke toes maybe.

"No. He needs to do this, to prove something to himself. If I don't let him come, he'll throw a fit and I'll never hear the end of it." Hawke muttered, nudging at the strap of her pack and kneeling to stroke her mabari hound. The dog whuffled, licked her palm and then set his head on his paws with a great doggy sigh.

"And bringing him has the added bonus of pissing off Leandra, I take it?" Hawke smiled ruefully at this, but her gaze didn't falter.

"And that." She straightened and stretched, a nervous habit of her's I'd picked up on over the last few months.

"So…" I polished Bianca's detail with the sleeve of my jacket, playing it casual. "Who else is coming with us?"

"I…" Hawke made an annoyed sound and kicked at a loose paving tile. "I was thinking Fenris…maybe Merril. I don't know, you can choose."

"Well, if Broody came at least he'd keep you amused. Don't know why you'd want Daisy along…unless you were planning to watch her and Carver do that awkward little dance they do around each other." Surprisingly, Hawke didn't even crack a smile. Her gaze flickered sideways to where Fenris was standing, all lanky elven limbs and brooding demeanour as he watched Hawke with a steady, open look. Broody expected Hawke to bring him everywhere, got antsy when he didn't have anything to occupy himself with and Hawke was out with the others. It'd never been clearer to me that while he might hate mages, he certainly thought of Hawke as a pretty girl first and a fireball flinging maniac second. So why all this angst? What could Hawke's problem be?

"No Blondie?" It was a shot in the dark, but her face immediately changed, lip curling and fingers digging into her elbows as she folded her arms. There it was, the sore spot. Easy as poking a dragon in the eye.

"Anders refused to come. No, he _insulted _me and refused to come! What the hell is the use of having a Grey Warden as a…a bloody friend-" Hawke made a furious, nervous pace back and forth once. "-If he won't go for a quick jaunt into the Deep Roads? He's a bloody cowa-he's a-Maker take him, its not as though I'm asking a lot!"

"Do you think Blondie knows you consider him a friend?" Hawke glowered with a look that could have rivaled Bartrand at his most cantankerous.

"Of course he does! I talk to him, don't I?" She kicked the tile again and it rocked in its mooring. Theedog, the mabari who did nothing useful and had no discernible purpose I could spot other than to be a flea infested stand-in for Carver, picked his head up from his paws and made a mild woofing noise at his mistress's distress.

"No offense, Princess, but you also talk to Gamlen."

"I _fight_ with Gamlen." The best thing to do with Hawke was just to wait a second and let it come to her. I raised my eyebrows and surveyed a worn patch on my gloves. In the background, Junior dropped something heavy on his foot and tried not to cry as Daisy fussed over him. "Varric, I…oh, I see. Well, it's not the same! I asked him _nicely _and everything! I tried, Varric. Isn't there something in the Chant that says the Maker gives you credit for trying?"

"I don't know about the Chant, but the Ancestor's might. You really nervous, Hawke?"

"Yes. No!" The loose tile cracked with a sound like igniting lyrium powder as she threw her arms up in frustration, glowering past me to where Daisy and Carver were sitting, Junior holding his foot and smiling as the chirpy little elf chattered away about something. Probably butterflies, or the secret location of Sanctioned Frolicking. Whatever it was, Junior was all too happy to sit there and ogle the pretty little dalish girl.

"Maybe." Hawke relented, crushing a bit of chipped tile under her heel and looking upset.

"You're worried about Junior?" I wasn't a huge fan of Carver on my best day, but then he had specifically requested not to become part of one of my stories…he and Daisy'd make a nice additional romance to flavor my story about an wild apostate and an ex-slave…

"No, I'm worried about having to live with Leandra if I come home without him." From Hawke, that was as good as a confession of absolute and unrelenting terror. Yeah, she was worried. She was terrified. If I needed any proof, all I had to do was look at the way the useless mabari was watching her with his liquid brown eyes, whining piteously.

"I shouldn't have to explain this to you, Varric. You've got a stupid brother, you know what it's like." Hawke paced a little circle around me, burying her fingers in her hair and nearly tripping over her packs as she did so.

"Not really, I'm the youngest. Less responsibility…I haven't seen my mother in years." And thank the ancestor's for that small mercy…

"It's not about Carver, anyway. It's about-!" Hawke's face screwed up in consternation for a moment and her hands clenched into fists…fists that might at any moment burst into flame. Not good. It would be the ultimate irony if she got caught now, of all days. "Maker's flabby thighs, it's about Anders not…_not conforming_!"

"He's a rebel mage, Hawke. It's his sole purpose to resist whatever anyone tells him. And you do make that face sometimes when you ask things…"

"I don't care if Anders is the sovereign king of some island of sordid little flesh-eating pygmies, he'll do as I say because we are…I am…we're business partners and he owes me a slew of favours! There! And I do not get a face when I ask things!" Yeah, she did. She was making a variation of it as we spoke, where her eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted and she looked for all the world like a High dragon about to roast a city.

"You think having Blondie around might increase Junior's chances of not ending up as Darkspawn bait?" Odd that Blondie would refuse Hawke, would finally put his foot down about something like this. You would think an apostate would leap at the chance to get out from under Templar scrutiny, if only for a month or so. But then, Anders was on the run from the Wardens as well. Too many irons in the fire…

"Yes. Probably. But it doesn't matter, does it? He refused to come…Carver! CARVER!" Junior looked up with a scowl on his face, pissed that his big sister would think she could harass him while he was clearly busy tripping head over heels for Daisy.

"What are you yowling about, sister?"

"Where did Thee go? Is he over with you and Merril? He was right here a second ago…" The normally loyal fleabag had indeed vanished, leaving only a puddle of evaporating drool as evidence to his existence.

"No, I haven't seen your bloody mabari anywhere. Why do you care? I thought we were leaving him to watch over mother." Hawke groaned and flopped down to sit on her backpack, head in her hands. In a flash, Broody was there hovering with the sort of intense passion that would have made most women swoon. A pity Hawke was too strung out to appreciate it.

"Dwarf, is something wrong?"

"Nullos est simalum…canis leipen absens, mihi caput angueros et ego sum sobrius. Volokomenos valens." Hawke muttered in muted Arcanum, glowering at her boots. The first time she and Broody had chattered in that freaky mage speak, it had been kind of cute. But I didn't know what the Void they were saying, and that had ruined the mystique for me permanently.

"You know that little couple's thing you do with the language barrier? It's frustrating for a storyteller like me, I feel like there's a whole dynamic I'm missing here-" And that's when something plowed into me like a charging bronto and sent me sprawling. It takes a lot to knock a dwarf over, we've got a naturally low center of gravity and really there's no reason to shove a dwarf unless you're another dwarf. The whole you shove I shove back dynamic is a height/intimidation thing. And the last time I checked, Bartrand might breathe down my neck but he didn't like to _slobber_ down my neck. "Hawke, get your dog off me."

"Thee! Heel!" Paws the size of saucer's pushed off my shoulders as the dog lept cheerfully at his mistress, barking excitedly. "No, down! What's gotten into…_you_."

Unless Thee had just taken the opportunity to piss on her pack, I somehow felt she wasn't talking to the mabari anymore. That and Broody's scoff of disdain as he tried to help me up told me exactly who'd just appeared, even before he opened his big mouth.

"That dog wouldn't stop howling until I followed him here." Lo and behold, there was Blondie. Standing there with his eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun and a frown on his face. And a packed bag over his shoulder…followed Theedog to Hightown Andraste's succulent tits. Blondie needed to get better at this lying stuff. Had Hawke been on her game, she would have spotted the inconsistency right away. Better that she didn't this time, though. Mage wrangling has never been my forte.

"What do you care if my dog howls, you could have just ignored him. He'd have let you be eventually-" Hawke struggled to push the overexcited hound away in vain, one side of her face covered in saliva. "THEE, GET DOWN!"

"And here I thought mabari were intelligent enough to understand common tongue." You had to hand it to Blondie, for once he was pushing Hawke's buttons and not the other way around. She shot him a furious look and her hands balled into fists as she struggled against the excited fleabag.

"He understands fine, he's just not-" Hawke wrestled with the giant paws, losing the battle against her own dog. "-listening. Ow, damn it!"

"Theedog, get down." Anders said, making a downward 'sit' motion. Abruptly, the giant dog plopped down onto his tiny little tail, ears up and tongue lolling. Hawke had a look on her face that could have curdled cream.

"You faithless suck up." She grumbled, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. Theedog didn't seem to mind, snuffling his wet doggy nose against her hip affectionately.

"Wow, Blondie. I thought your magic only worked on those of a feline persuasion."

"Oh sod it, he's only listening to Anders because he's being manipulative. What do you want, Anders, other than to bond with my dog?" Hawke looked tired and fed up as she leaned into Broody's shoulder. The elf stumbled slightly at the unexpected contact but recovered, barely. And shot me a dirty look for grinning at him.

"You going to join us, Blondie? It'd be nice to have a Gray Warden along…" It'd look bad to Broody if he knew Hawke was more in favour of bringing Blondie along than himself. If it looked like it was my idea…well, I can't say I was looking forward to a conversation with a short-tempered elf gone mad with jealousy, but at least he wouldn't quibble with Hawke over it.

"Of course. Hawke invited me personally, after all." Maker's sweaty ball sack, as soon as we were out of earshot I was going to kick Anders so hard in the shins he'd limp all the way to the Deep Roads. Broody looked like he wanted to hit something, namely the smug mage standing there in front of him. Instead, he settled for snagging Hawke by the elbow and tugging her aside, muttering furiously in Tevinter. Anders tossed his pack and bedroll down next to Hawke's things, smirking like a cat who got the cream.

"You're an ass, Blondie." I pinched the bridge of my nose and heaved a sigh. With Carver and Anders and Hawke all at each other's throats, it was going to be a long trip. A really, really long trip. Longer than that one trip to Orzammar when I was just a kid where Bartrand talked nonstop about the damn caste system between bouts of cart sickness.

"So I've been told." Blondie muttered, giving me a mildly offended look. "Varric, you can't honestly tell me you disapprove. _She_ baits _me_!"

"Oh yeah? So what are you doing here then? Rising to the bait?"

"Oh, I can irritate her much more thoroughly if I'm with her every waking hour than if I'm at the Clinic. The whole venture was worth it just to see the look on Fenris's face. She chose _me_ over _him_." Blondie seemed more smug than he had any right to be, and damned if he wasn't doing his best to look the dashing renegade mage on this morning of all mornings.

"If I didn't know better-" Boy was he going to regret opening his big mouth to gloat.

"It's not like that, Varric. I wouldn't touch Hawke with a ten foot pole-" Oh, the _lies_.

"Maybe by the end of this expedition you'll be able to say that and mean it, eh? Uh oh." Big brother Bartrand was storming towards Hawke and Broody like a bronto on the war path.

"Hey, human! Let's get going, we're burning daylight!"

"Fifty sovereigns bought me at least five minutes, dwarf. Now go suck the-" Profanity rang across Hightown and mingled with the squawks of distant seabirds.

"Fine with me! Just don't be surprised if we move out without you, you ungrateful-" And my beloved brother matched her language, tossing in a few extra dwarven curses to spice it up and get his message across. After a mercifully brief bit of yowling at one another like a pair of angry alley cats, Bartrand stormed off and Hawke returned to an embarrassed looking Fenris.

Hawke said something I couldn't hear and then jumped up on tip toe and pecked Broody on the cheek. It was a smooth maneuver that left the elf frozen with surprise and shock, clearly Hawke had been waiting to execute such a perfectly innocent sneak attack. Hawke turned back to us with a smirk on her face that spoke volumes of deviousness and female satisfaction. Beside me, Blondie scowled his rebel mage heart out.

"Oh yes, that's going to end well."

"I'm counting on it for the success of my new story I'm writing, the love story of a wild lady mage and her broody elven lover…don't jinx it, Blondie. I've got a good thing going with a jealous love triangle and the less believable -hence more attractive -plotline has credence."

"Varric, I am not jealous."

"Who says your part of the triangle, Blondie? Who's to say it isn't a lady pirate?" With Hawke back within earshot, Blondie had no choice but to clamp his mouth shut about it. So instead he directed the frustration at Hawke.

"Had to make a scene of it, didn't you?" She smiled, that Winning Hawke smile, and tickled him under his chin as she strode on by.

"Isabela's had me practicing my curse words. And my off-guard kissing skills. All in all I think it was a successful public spectacle. The city will miss me while I'm away, I'm sure. Here, Bother, carry this." Hawke chucked her bedroll at Carver's smirking face. Hawke Junior fumbled the grab and shot her a black look of sibling loathing. Merril's giggle sealed the insult. Carver chucked the bedrolls over his shoulder in disgust, snagging his own things. Anders shouldered his pack as Hawke grabbed her stuff and swung it at an attending hireling. Grinning like a demon, she smacked Daisy lightly on the arse and made her squeak.

"See you in a few weeks, Merril. Don't get thrown in the Circle while we're gone, Bother and I would miss you terribly if you did." Blondie and Junior seemed to be having a competition when it came to who could look angrier with Hawke.

"Well, Varric? What do you say we get this traveling circus on the road?"


	10. The Deep Roads: Part I

**Author's Note: **Oooooh it was a super long wait! Very, very sorry! Huge thanks to Falcon, Luranne and NoMadKa, your reviews and support mean the world to me, really! And here's some Derp Roads as a gift! I admit, this chapter gave me such a hard time, finally clicked today! So enjoy and pretty pretty please review. Also, I now have a tumblr! So, as soon as I feel like anyone's paying attention, I'll be posting stuff about stories and things there(along with some epic pictures of my favourite DA cosplayers from cons and things). You can find the link on my profile page if you're interested. Any case, here's the chapter!

"_I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse perhaps, to be locked in." _**~ Virginia Woolf**

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><p>"You selfish bastard."<p>

And so it had come to this. Again. For the second time in the last hour. _All that time I spent dreading having her fight with me and who she really gets mad with is Carver._ Hawke's brother had been steadfastly miserable since they entered the Deep Roads and trying his best not to show it. It must have been a trait specific to Hawke's to appear stubbornly ill tempered rather than let everyone know how upset you really were. Anyone would think the pair of them had been raised by rabid blight wolves with how they snapped and sniped at one another. Even if Hawke finally had a good reason to be angry…

"What did you expect? You chuck things at me like I'm a pack mule and then you complain when I stand my ground and refuse? Where's the logic in that?" Carver bellowed, his voice echoing through the underground tunnel. Streyga hopped over a fallen pillar, her expression twisted with annoyance as the toe of her boot caught and she barely recovered her feet. Varric and Anders were bringing up the rear, letting the Hawke's take point. Far from distancing themselves from the squabble, it just gave every jibe an echoing quality that bounced around Anders's skull and helped nurture the headache forming behind his temples.

"Maker, Varric, make them stop. Between them and the taint whispers-"

"I gave you the bedrolls, you colossal fool. First you beg to come to the Deep Roads and then you chuck our bedrolls into a ditch just so you can-" It hadn't been an issue until they had actually descended into the Deep Roads and the bags of grain and supplies had started to dwindle. Sleeping on soft surface ground was one thing, Deep Roads bedrock quite another.

Not that Hawke slept much, really. She slept even less than him, truth be told. For someone who didn't have tainted Warden dreams, it was borderline unhealthy how little Hawke actually consented to close her eyes and rest. She was always up before them and attempting to cook-Anders had put a stop to this dangerous practice three days into the expedition, if he'd thought Hawke was dangerous with a staff she was a literal menace with a skillet in hand. Lately, she had taken to prowling the perimeter of their encampment and swearing under her breath in a very passable Fenris imitation. Jokes aside, her exhaustion was starting to take a noticeable toll.

"Hawke-" Varric attempted to interject and Hawke ignored him, glaring daggers at her younger brother.

"-pull one over on your dread older sibling-"

"Hawke!"

"WHAT! What, what, what Varric? For the Maker's sake, what do you want?"

"Just to point out the tunnels are fragile; you get in a tussle with Junior here and you'll cause a cave-in. Why don't we think of a suitable compromise. Blondie and I brought our bedrolls." Anders brain took a moment to register exactly what the dwarf had just said before the sense of betrayal sank in. How dare that devious little cretin just offer up there supplies like-well, it just wasn't fair. Hawke and Carver had made their own beds-or rather lack there of-and now it was only just that they should lie in them.

"How nice for you." Carver snapped, missing the implication. _Thank the Maker._

"Yes, how nice for us. Varric, shut up now." Anders grumbled, clutching his bedroll protectively to his chest as Hawke eyed it like a dragon drooling over prey. She glanced sideways at Varric, sidling closer to him.

"What are you getting at?"

"Well, I know it'd help me win a bet with Rivaini if you-" Hawke smirked and cut in before Varric could finish, bumping her hip lightly against Anders's own before sauntering by with the easy confidence of a prowling wildcat.

"Carver, you go ahead and bunk with Anders. I'm with Varric and Bianca." Carver gaped at her in horror and Anders rolled his eyes. Yes, of course that would be Hawke's deduction.

"Ha! Right, no! I'd rather wake up cuddling darkspawn, sister!" How could Carver honestly fall for the teasing?

"That can always be arranged, Bother dearest." Hawke's tone was taking back it's dagger edge and Anders felt her magic flare. The sense of it took his breath away.

Fiery, feminine, fiercely lovely. Like standing outside in the middle of a thunder storm. Maker, it was almost better than a kiss. Disturbing, to think about kissing Hawke. But the wild attraction of it was powerful nonetheless. _An apostate_, it sang, _your kith and kin_. No matter how hard he tried, he could not reconcile the feeling with the reality of Hawke's duplicity. All her power put towards chaining those who should be free. It was a true villainy when the villain herself was so damnably attractive-and dangerous, too. Hawke was one of the few mages he'd met with such a tantalizingly powerful aura, apostate to the bone. If she'd just take up arms with the right side…Justice surged with approval. **We would be unstoppable. **"Hawke, that was not what I meant-" Varric was clearly miffed at his excellent jest being spoiled by Carver's ignorance and Hawke's lack of acknowledgement.

"What, do you want to sleep with Carver?" Varric made a face and Anders laughed, maybe the first of Hawke's jokes that he'd ever been able to appreciate because for once he wasn't the brunt of it. She even flashed him a smile, bright with mischief. He smiled back before he could help himself. **Foolish, she is insufferable. Unjust. Even if we wish it to be else wise-** Anders chose to ignore Justice, just this once.

"…Blondie? Hey, Blondie. What do you say? Share a bedroll with our lovely lady Hawke?" Anders thought about that for a moment, even though outwardly he tried his best to look offended. Sharing a bedroll with Hawke was…out of the question. He hated Hawke and she wasn't going to actually agree, in any case. Still, the thought of Hawke curled up next to-

"Magey, eyes on the road and off my sister's arse." Carver snapped, shouldering by him.

"Wha-! I wasn't-"

"Now, now, Carver. Don't get jealous, I've always had the nicer arse. And I certainly wouldn't mind sharing a bedroll with you, Anders." The way Hawke looked him up and down made Anders feel warm and sent a spark of lust shooting through him. _She's just teasing you, you fool. _Carver groaned and rolled his eyes and Varric's hand twitched towards his pack, always reading to whip out a quill and scribble more scandalously exaggerated Tales of Hawke.

"If I was bothered by sleeping on the ground I'd definitely take you up on the kind offer." Carver snorted and Hawke shot him a black glare, ruining the effect of her casual pride.

"Whatever you say, Sister. Because you've been doing so much sleeping, lately."

There was steel and fire in the siblings expressions for a moment before Hawke turned the tension stiff in her shoulders.

"Not everyone can have good dreams about how great they will be once they're out from under their elder sister's oppressive shadow." The two siblings shared another vicious look before falling into hostile silence. Anders sighed deeply. He had weeks of this to look forward to, didn't he?

* * *

><p>Hawke has been sleeping on the ground with her cloak wrapped around her and uses her pack as a pillow. It's clear from where he lies in his own bedroll that she isn't comfortable, or even sleeping, to be honest. She rolls on her back with a sigh and stares up into the boundless black of the stone ceiling high above them. Carver has plunked himself down on the other side of the fire and is snoring like an ogre with a head cold. After a moment, Hawke stands up and wraps the cloak around herself before walking off.<p>

Anders rolled onto his back and fell asleep again, feeling a twinge of guilt.

* * *

><p>"Anders. <em>Anders<em>. Wake up." Anders opened one eye and groaned, rolling away as Hawke leaned over him, one hand nudging insistently at his shoulder.

"Go away."

"I…I cant sleep with you tossing and turning." She said hesitantly, scooting closer to him. There were dark circles under her eyes and she looked drawn and tired. Part of him was glad, especially since she cited her reasons for not being able to sleep as his fault. He rolled over on his other side, back to her.

"I promise I'll have quieter, less offensive night terrors. How's that, Lady Hawke?" He felt a soft swat at his shoulder and resisted the urge to swat back.

"Don't be glib. Are your warden dreams always this bad or is it the Deep Roads?"

"Hawke, what do you really want?" He sat up and glared at her, trying to intimidate her back to her cloak and the pack she was using as a pillow. Hawke folded her legs underneath herself stiffly, wincing as she did so and wrapping her arms around her body to stave off some of the chill. The Deep Roads fluctuated between a terrible, sweltering heat and a cold that seeped into your bones; depending on where you were along a given route. Cold, sore and sleepless. Like night's spent in a Circle cell…

"Just to-" Hawke hesitated, her eyes glinting in the faint light given off by the main body of the camp. "Just to talk."

"You've got to be kidding." Anders scoffed, running a hand through his hair and sighing. Beside him, Hawke shuddered at a sudden gust of foul air, just chilly enough to be exquisitely uncomfortable. It made Hawke seem smaller, even a little vulnerable. _No, no, no. I will not feel guilty because this silly selfish woman was foolish enough not to carry her own bedroll. She's not my responsibility. _And yet the defiant glare had become a pleading, desperate thing.

"Y-y-you're right, I'm kidding. I just…never mind." Hawke started to get up, shivering violently and taking a step back towards her meager bed. _Damn it all to the Void, Anders._

"Hawke, come here."

"Why?" She turned back to him, looking suspicious.

"You're cold and tired and sore. Don't think I cant see it."

"So?" She muttered, suspiciousness turning to pride.

"So we've got miles of Darkspawn infested hole to trek through and you cant fight if you're about to fall asleep. Take the bedroll for a few-"

"I am not taking your bedroll." Hawke snapped, her voice flinty.

"Why? Is there something wrong with my bedroll?" Yes, this had been a bad idea. Thinking Hawke would be reasonable…Maker, what had gotten into him?

"No, there's nothing wrong with it. But you'll be deprived and then I...You're a warden, you need your rest." She said firmly, shaking her head. Even the tiny gesture was laced with a weariness beyond all telling.

"So do you."

"Blondie, Princess. Shut up." Varric murmured, a small lump tucked up in his own bedroll a few feet away. Hawke glanced back at him and then back at Anders, sitting back down stiffly and tugging her cloak around her shoulders. Pride was written in all of her features as she rubbed her palms together and blew on them lightly, calling a bit of fire to her hands.

"I'll be fine, Anders. I'll make my own warmth…thank the Maker for magic, eh?" Anders didn't dignify that with a reply and just glared at her stonily before rolling back over and trying to fall asleep. After a moment, Hawke sighed and moved off, her boots scraping against the stone as she departed. He doubted she was going off to sleep and the thought made the healer in him squirm. Even with both his bedroll and his greatcoat to provide padding, it was an uncomfortable bed. With only her pack and her cloak it must have been impossible to sleep. **The Hawkedemon's discomfort should not trouble us**…_but it does…_

* * *

><p>He was the first to wake in the morning, as usual. When he finally managed to open his eyes and give up the pretense that he might be able to trick himself into catching a little extra rest, he was met by the sight of Hawke gazing wearily into the dying fire. She poked at it with a stick, a steaming mug resting beside her. Anders winced as he sat up, stiffness in all of his muscles. Hawke looked up and gave him a half smile, picking up the mug and holding it out. For a moment, he paused his stretching and stared at her gormlessly. Hawke's expression of friendly exhaustion flattened to a glare.<p>

"Want me to take a sip to prove it's not poisoned? It's coffee, Anders. Have some." She set it down with a clink and nudged it over to him. He took the mug gratefully and sat up, folding his legs underneath him.

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me, thank the Bother. He forgot our bedrolls, but he remembered to smuggle his own stash of Antivan roast-" Anders choked and nearly spewed coffee everywhere. "-so this is mostly his. Don't give me that look, if he gives you trouble about your coffee breath, send him to me."

If Hawke felt half as tired as she looked, swilling down her own cup, she should have been dead. Her eyes were dull, her normally tidy bleached hair was in disarray, even her chasind tattoos seemed droopy. She rested her wrist's on her bent knees and cradled her mug, staring into the fire like it was tethering her to the earth.

"Did you sleep, Hawke?"

"I'm fine." She sighed, hands trembling as she lifted the cup to her lips. "I…you got to sleep after I woke you?"

"Of course." She nodded-extra nods as her eyes drifted shut and she bounced back again. It wouldn't do, she'd kill them all if she tried to lead in this condition. Even her aura, which had been so fresh and vibrant not a few days before, was starting to feel leaden. Like her magic was leaning on his… "Hawke-"

"I can't, you know. Not because I don't want to…but I just…Carver needs minding-" As she spoke the name, it's owner stirred, looking disgruntled.

"What do you want now?" Anders could have smacked the boy for whining. Hawke, dreadful as she was, was making herself sick over him. Hawke managed an exhausted eye roll and set down the mug, her head tipping sideways into her hand.

"See what I-" She yawned. "See what I mean?"

Anders stood and moved to the other side of the campfire, nudging Varric awake with his foot. The dwarf was up in a second, Bianca already held close to his chest. Rogues were like that, even Isabela. One minute groggy and the next terribly, terribly alert. Varric looked up at him and then to where Hawke was muttering at Carver about the coffee-it was a one sided conflict to be sure.

"Varric, I need you to tell Bartrand we can't scout ahead today. He'll either have to wait or send the hirelings, she's in no condition to move." He was all healer now, there was no way Hawke was going to do anything but spend the next few hours asleep. Period. Mages needed sleep as much, if not more, than everyone else. If she hadn't been so bloody stubborn last night-

"You sure it's that bad? It'll be hard to convince big brother to slow down-"

"She handed me coffee this morning and asked me how I slept, Varric." The dwarf raised his eyebrows and whistled, brown eyes widening in the reddish light of the Deep Roads.

"Whoa, right. So yeah, I'll go tell him. Make sure it's not the Blight."

"You're funny." Anders called bitterly, turning back to the Hawke siblings just in time to see Carver stumble backwards with a yelp as Hawke force shoved him away from Anders's forgotten coffee cup.

"Go play, Carver."

"Stop doing that, dismissing me! I'm not your servant-"

"And don't I know it. Leave the coffee alone or I'll mind blast you until you see double, Bother." Carver looked beside himself with fury for a moment and turned to sputter at Anders only to be stopped short.

"Listen to your sister, Carver." And then he grabbed the boy by the front of his tunic and snarled under his breath. "Hawke is very, very tired. I don't think she's slept since we entered the Deep Roads five days ago. Did your father ever tell you what happens to sleep deprived mages? It isn't pretty. Now, go bother someone else for a change and leave her be."

Compliance was not something he'd expected from Carver, so he was surprised when all the boy did was mutter something nasty and storm off, barking 'Get some bloody sleep, sister' over his shoulder. That was good; getting into a physical altercation with Carver would very likely have been the end of him. Anders pinched the bridge of his nose and knelt beside Hawke, trying to present his best 'serious healer' face. As if that would convince her.

"I saved your coffee." She murmured, touching it lightly with the toe of her boot.

"However gallant of you. Come on, Hawke. Let's get you to bed." He set a hand on her shoulder tentatively, ready for her to pull away. She listed towards him slightly instead, sniffing and rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I…I suppose I could try and…nap." She yawned so widely her eyes squinched shut. So, tired Hawke was nice Hawke? Or was it just that she was so overwhelmingly weary she couldn't find it in herself to be nasty?

"You look like death warmed over, Princess. Blondie, I talked to Bartrand. He's willing to give us a few hours and sent a few poor hirelings off to their doom. Make it count." Varric sauntered by, patting Hawke lightly on the head as he went. She smiled at him and then turned her tired eyes to Anders's own.

"Do you know any sleep spells? I don't think I can…I'd rather not-" Hawke was asking him for a dreamless sleep…one of her hands clutched weakly at his wrist. She swayed into him and the smell of her filled his nose. The scent of her sweat, road dust, coffee and the tang of bergamot and mint underscoring the other smells. A sweet dash of lyrium on her breath…Maker, the combination was deadly. He recalled with perfect clarity a night with Earyn, her breath sweet with the substance and it's spark on her tongue as she kissed him in one of the cramped and dusty alcoves of one of the Circle's many libraries- Hawke made a soft sound, halfway between a whimper and a sigh and it drew him back to the present.

"I can cast one for you. Here, stand up-" Hawke trembled as she stood, blinking slowly and trudging behind him to where his bedroll and coat still lay. "Get in."

Hawke looked like she might object for a moment, caught between sinking to the bed and the comfort it offered and stubbornly resisting just for the sake of it. Anders pushed gently on her shoulders and she slumped bonelessly to the ground. Carefully, he helped her unlace her boots and tried not to think about the last time he'd helped anyone off with their clothes that didn't have something to do with healing. _This is healing, of a sort. Maker's breath, she should have one foot in the Fade by now…_

"You smell nice, you know. Like…embrium and elf root and tallow." Hawke yawned kittenishly, sliding her stocking feet into his bedroll and pillowing her head on the folded, feathery shoulder of his great coat. She inhaled deeply and sighed against it, causing the gray feathers to flutter under the gentle exhalation.

"I…thanks." _I didn't even realize that you noticed_…she met his eyes with her dark, deep blue Amell ones and smiled in a way that made his heart leap against his ribcage. Hawke looked lovely when she truly smiled, happy and peaceful. _If only you were different, love. If only we both were. _Anders was so caught up lamenting the fact he nearly forgot he was supposed to be spelling her to sleep. "I…you're sure you want me to-"

"Yes. I haven't…bad dreams. For a few months now. It'll be nice not to have them." _A few months…Maker's breath, why didn't she tell me? _Hawke rolled over on her back, snuggling down into his blankets and shutting her eyes. _Would you have even cared? Or would you have made some snide comment about mages and guilt? _Tentatively, he set a hand on her cool brow. She heaved a sigh and he felt her wince under his touch. Anders felt a surge of bitterness at her reluctance and went to pull away. She caught him by the wrist before he could and her eyes snapped open. "Wait! I didn't…it's not you. It's…bad memories. The sleep spells. I…sorry."

"It's fine. Just, deep breaths and think calm thoughts." Carefully, he reached for the magic and matched his breath with hers. Then a small push and _sleep. _Hawke's eyelids drooped and shut, her breathing coming slower and slower, her troubled face smoothing into blissful, dreamless sleep. Her fingers slipped from his wrist and fell to her side.

* * *

><p>Hawke slept well past what might be considered midday in the Deep Roads. Periodically he came to check on the female form tucked away under his blankets. Sleeping Hawke didn't look like Hawke anymore: she seemed smaller when she slept, curled into a tight ball on her side. Someone, maybe Carver or Hawke herself through sheer restless tossing and turning, had unbound her hair. It spread like a white banner across the gray feathers, gossamer strands catching in places. But it wasn't just that…Hawke's face, smoothed of all the lines, the ever-present smile of wickedness gone from her lips. Without them, she looked softer and more human. Still the protagonist of Varric's wild tales…but more real.<p>

"What do you think, Blondie?"

"I think this is how I like her best, asleep."

"Oh, come now, Blondie." Varric chuckled and settled himself beside the mage, taking Bianca from her place over his shoulder and lovingly adjusting the fiddly looking weapon. After a moment, the dwarf paused and looked down at Hawke's sleeping form and sighed heavily. "She does look…kind of happy, doesn't she?"

"She does." Waking lies were gone from her face and it made her look sweetly vulnerable. Anders reflected bitterly on the difference's between waking Hawke and sleeping Hawke-

"-nightmares before we left. Then I caught her and Broody making eyes at one another-"

"That's no good. He'll only hurt her. He hates mages, I don't understand why she can't see that." Anders snapped more sharply than he'd intended. The LyriumElfSlave must not have her, she is a mage. Mages belong to us, we are the cause of mages. Justice lashed about in his skull like a wild beast trapped in a net, conflicted about Hawke. They were both conflicted.

"Broody's not all bad. Stranger things have happened, I'm sure. The apostate and the damaged elven slave…it makes a good romance." Varric murmured casually, far too casually.

"He will hurt her. And she'll deserve it."

"Hell, you tell Hawke a stove is hot and she'd place her hand on it just to prove that she didn't think so. Especially if there's a snippy renegade mage telling her not to." Hawke rolled over in her sleep, fingers clutching convulsively at the gray feathers. Varric sighed and ran a hand down his face. "Besides, Blondie. Hawke may talk the talk and walk the walk, but I think you're the only one she's got fooled."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Wake her up, I hear Bartrand complaining…" Varric stood up and presumably disappeared to head off his disagreeable brother. Anders sighed and looked down at Hawke's sleeping form once more…her fingers were tangled in his feathers, eyelashes soft against tattooed cheeks. He reached over and lightly traced the curve of one of the blue lines…trying to remember what the markings meant to the chasind. Some bit of lore he learned ages ago in the Circle and forgotten. He'd have to ask her…he patted her cheek gently. Hawke's eyelids flickered and she made a soft, irritated sound and tucked her head down toward her chest.

"Hawke, wake up," He tapped her on the shoulder. "it's time to go."

"Mmmrm."

"Hawke." He was unable to resist running his fingers over her tattoo again, letting his thumb brush across one of her trembling eyelids as he did so, feeling the soft brush of her eyelash against his knuckles. Hawke smiled a little and yawned, sighing. It was…adorable. **No, it is not. We have agreed that only kittens are adorable. The DemonHawke is…not. We must wake the woman and be done with this foolishness. **Anders ignored the spirit and smiled, stroking Hawke's cheek again. She was smiling for him…a real smile! "Come on, Hawke. Up."

"Mhmm." Hawke murmured throatily, "Fenris."

Bugger fuck the Maker on his great golden throne of righteousness. From behind him, Varric and Carver burst out laughing so loudly the sound echoed a thousand times over through the cavernous Deep Roads. Anders yanked his hand back as Hawke surged up from the bedroll, fire flaring up in one hand as she scrambled around in shock for a moment.

"Morning, Sister!" Carver called, a smarmy grin on his face. Hawke shot him a wary look and closed her fingers into a fist, the flame dying out as she did so. Her eyes flicked to Anders's own and she looked him up and down once, one hand reaching up to touch her cheek briefly and then falling back to her side.

"Anders." She nodded and he thrust her boots at her, feeling unreasonably hurt. _She was half asleep, and she probably expects you'd wake her up with a kick in the ribs._ Still, he couldn't help but be upset as she pulled on her socks and snagged the boots out of his hand, looking furtive.

"Not who you were expecting, Hawke?" Varric's voice still had a spark of humour in it and Hawke shot him a dark look. Anders stood up, angry with himself. **We told ourselves this would happen. We cannot afford to be bound to a demon-**_Justice, shut up! We're an Abomination, for the Maker's sake. And I-_**we**_-are not bound to Hawke_-**We care overmuch about her tainted opinion-**_We don't give a damn!_

"Blondie and Broody. Both B names. Both strapping, virile men folk with anger issues. I get them confused." She muttered shortly, yanking on her boots. She raised a hand to Anders and nodded at him. "Help me up?"

Anders, we cannot afford to-Anders gripped her forearm and help pulled her to her feet. She came up a little suddenly, her lips close to his ear as she swept by him. He barely heard the breathily muttered 'thank you' her hand ghosting over his shoulder as he breathed in the scent of her, now mingled with his own from the bedroll. Enough. **Stop fantasizing about the DemonHawke-here**. A vision of a Desire demon with Hawke's features loomed in his mind and he stifled a sharp groan. _Justice, showing me naked women-_**it's a demon!-**_is exacerbating the issue. _**A demon, not a woman!-**_A picture of a demon with a great rack and Hawke's face doesn't help!_

"You alright, Fenris?" Varric patted him on the elbow as he sauntered by, giving that belly deep dwarf chuckle.

"Shut up, Varric." Anders tried to center his thoughts and snatched up his coat savoring the skin warmed fabric as Justice yammered on about mortal willpower and it's relative fragility.


	11. The Deep Roads: Part II

Author's Note: So…in it's uncut version, this is a fifteen page chapter. Derp. Don't know how that happened. So I've cut a few things out, revamped, reworked, reworded. There is a cameo appearance by Mahariel(If you squint, there's even a sideways reference to the Tabris family in Denerim), more Hawke/Anders bonding, some mention of Fenris ;) . Enjoy! :D And don't forget to check out zee tumblr, if you are so inclined, and leave me a review. Really. You have no idea the dance I do when I get a review. XD :D

"_Fear is another emotion that is strongly suppressed. We cannot afford to be afraid, and so we don't allow ourselves to sense and feel the fear within us. We lower our brows to deny it, set our jaws to defy it, and smile to deceive ourselves. But inwardly we remain scared to death." _**~ Alexander Lowen**

* * *

><p>They walked for hours ahead of the main body of the expedition, relying mostly on the crumbling torches and vast lava pits to lend them the light to see by. When it got too dark for even Hawke to see properly, she raised a hand and called a bit of fire to it, the glowing orange a spot of brightness imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. The way the flickering light cast shadows, warped them; was unsettling. It made him feel like there were darkspawn he couldn't sense everywhere but if he just focused on her…darkspawn became a secondary concern. There was a bit of gray down-<em>from my coat<em>-which had tucked itself into the snowy hair on her nape. With each draft of stagnant air, it's little fibers fluttered. He wanted to reach over and pluck it out to show to her but then…well, he felt a certain amount of mad pride that she had one of his feathers in her hair, even if it was only an accident.

"Anders. _Anders_." She was talking to him. He started and shook his head, moving to come up beside her-and stopping when she struck out a hand, one finger pressed to her lips.

"What? What is it?"

"It's not darkspawn?" She was slowly backing towards Carver and Varric, the pair quickly following her example and taking up positions on her flank. Anders did the same, drawing his staff and reaching for the place inside his mind, the place where the Taint whispered and writhed. He let the wordless voices surge for a moment, a black, terrible moment, and listened.

"No. There are darkspawn close, but they're not interested in us. Did you hear something?"

"A scratching sound," it was Carver who answered, looking pale as he slowly lifted his great sword. "And a smell-"

The spider landed within their protective circle. Hissing and scritching, it went straight for Hawke's younger brother. Then suddenly they were everywhere. A nest, Anders thought, we've blundered into a bloody nest of them. A fireball caught in some webbing and a thousand, hairy black legs the length of his body seemed to swarm towards the killing light. Varric let out a shout as a spider ran at him and earned a crossbow bolt between the eyes for it's assault. Carver was fending off three of them, so purple they were almost black and with the odd, telltale tumoural growths and glittering blood red eyes that meant they had Blight corruption.

Anders wanted to shout, to warn the warrior to be bloody _careful_, to not get a mouthful of blood but by then the hoard was upon him and it was all he could do to keep from being overwhelmed. A swathe of frost magic froze three of the smaller spiders, trying to come up on his flank. His stave swept aside the spider coming from his right. He heard Carver's cry of pain, called the magic to remotely heal him-

"ANDERS! Move!" Hawke hipchecked him so hard he stumbled back against the wall. The giant spider fell on her, the claws at the ends of it's legs raking at her as it tried in vain to get around the staff she was holding lengthwise against it's abdomen, going to her knees with the force of the creatures assault. The attack happened so fast, all he could do was watch in horror. The thing was too stupid to back off and try to go for her unprotected belly, it's carapace clacking as it smacked against the wood again and again. It scrambled, got a third leg up over the staff and slipped…it's fang plunging into the juncture between Hawke's shoulder and her neck.

"HAWKE!" Blood spurted from the wound as Hawke reeled backwards with a jagged cry of surprised pain. The creature's massive body fell on her, screeing gleefully as it's fangs clacked off the stone, trying to reposition and rip her head off.

"SISTER!" Carver was covered from head to toe in black blood, too far away to do anything. Varric couldn't get a clear shot, Anders summoned a bolt of ice-

"Everyone…shut…UP!" The creature sailed backwards on a pulse of force magic, hitting the ceiling of the cavern with a wet crunch and falling back to earth, twitching and hissing it's last. There was a moment of breathless silence, punctuated only by Hawke's soft whimper of pain as she dropped her staff and collapsed sideways.

"Hawke!" Anders jumped to help, only to get nearly run over by Carver as he rushed to his sister's side. Hawke pushed at her brother with her right arm, trying to squirm into a sitting position against a bit of rock, blood sluicing down her left arm. _Maker, that's definitely going to need healing. There's no way she can refuse and expect to keep standing._ Anders knelt beside her, peeling back the torn robes. The wound was shallow considering how large the spiders fangs were, but the creature had bitten to the bone of Hawke's clavicle. Streyga's face was gray, the blue of her tattoos standing out starkly against her pale complexion.

"Stop fussing, Little Bother. I'm fine." Hawke's voice broke and she clamped a hand over the wound, her teeth gritted. She looked up at Anders with a gaze full of pain. "In…ah!...Injury kit?"

"If you want to be able to use the arm again, it needs a proper healing. For Andraste's sake, Hawke, why did you do that?" Because that spider surely would have killed him with that blow, that was why she'd done it. Anders felt…impressed, maybe even a little touched by the gesture. A gesture that easily could have been Hawke's last…

"Teach you…to pay attention to your…flank. You healers…can't tell your tight, shapely arses from your elbows. Carver, go…" Hawke shoved at him wearily with a bloodied hand. The catch in her voice made Anders nervous, and he couldn't get enough access to the wound with bloody Carver hovering over protectively.

"And leave you with this idiot? Not a chance."

"Carver, go take care of Varric. You're not…just go, brother." The Hawke siblings traded sulfurous looks before Carver stormed away, casting Anders his best killing glare. Hawke watched him go and Anders couldn't tell if it was the pain of her wound or guilt that made her look so sick.

"I'm…ah! Going to have to pay for that later…" Hawke's sigh hitched as he examined the wound. Not poisonous, just bleeding. A lot. Hawke coughed and blood spackled her bottom lip. With any luck, that just meant she'd bitten her tongue…

"Hawke, I need to close this up. It shouldn't hurt too badly but if you want-" Hawke shot him a pained look and made a faint waving motion with her fingers, dismissing his suggestion of a brief sleep spell before he could make it.

"Go ahead and…heal it. Before I…lose consciousness." He placed his fingers around the wound, reached deep inside himself and tugged at the Fade strands, knitting them, tying them, picturing Hawke's shoulder hale and whole. He pictured how it would move, how the pale skin would strain and shift over bone and sinew and muscle. He felt the beat of Hawke's heart, the way it pounded too quickly in her breast. The deep breaths, sharp with pain as her intercostal muscles caught on the wound. _Mend_. The flesh knitted perfectly, the only evidence of the wounds existence was the copious amount of blood soaked down one shoulder of her robes.

"Better?" He asked, watching the colour come back to Hawke's pallor gradually.

She was still lying very still against the rock, her chest heaving beneath the blood soaked robes. There was a sheen of fresh sweat across her skin, tinged pink as it ran trails through the blood. Her hands were shaking as she fumbled with something on her belt, fingers trembling so badly-Hawke curled them into fists and sucked in a tremendous breath.

"Hawke? Hawke, is there something wrong-" Anders felt his heart jump into his throat. I missed something, the spider was venomous, she needs-"N-n-no. I just…I can't…"

"Hawke, breathe." She did, in large, hiccupping, hysterical gulps. "Breathe normally."

"I…I am." She glared at him, sucking three breaths in rapid succession. "I…I…don't need your h-help-"

"Breathe with me." He grabbed one of her shaking hands, alarmed when she didn't try and rip it out of his grasp, and pressed it to his chest. "Feel that? Easy, even, steady breaths."

Hawke stared at him with wild eyed panic for a moment, fingers arched like claws and her wrist rigid in his grasp. **Scared. Again. Why? **Justice perked up, a clinical air to his query._ One of these days, I'll make her tell me._ Anders exaggerated even breaths, never breaking eye contact. Then, abruptly, there was a vial of lyrium in his line of sight; the shimmering blue liquid quivering in the shaking hand that held it.

"Take it."

"Hawke, it really wasn't that-"

"I'm not asking. T-take it." Hawke's eyes were still wide with a blank, mindless sort of panic, but her mouth was twisted down into a stubborn line. If this was what it took to get her to take even breaths and stand up before the spiders came back, so be it. He plucked the potion from her grip, steeled himself for the taste and quaffed it straight down in one gulp.

"There. Happy now?" Hawke heaved a sigh of relief, clutching her healed shoulder in one hand and slumping back against the rock. A breathless, uneven chuckle sputtered from her lips.

"I…oh. Better. Thanks." She clawed at the rock behind her, ignoring his hand and struggling to her feet under her own power.

"Easy, go slowly-"

"Can I have some elfroot?" He passed her a small vial and she finished it in one swallow. Blood had spattered one side of her face and there was some in her hair, but Hawke didn't seem to care. She also looked inexplicably embarrassed as she picked up her staff. "What, Anders? Do I have web in my hair? Stuck to my arse? What are you ogling?"

"You…you could have just let it bite me." For a moment, Hawke was silent as she struggled to answer him.

"I…look, don't get all sentimental; the only void spawned creature who gets to chew your head off is me. " Hawke hiked warily up the steps ahead of him, stepping over darkspawn corpses and spider carapaces alike.

"And yet you haven't snarled at me yet…"

"You want me to? Fine: Next time, watch your own arse and focus on Varric and Carver. I want your back to the wall and if anything gets close to you freeze it solid. Leap into the middle of the fray like that again and I'll beat the fear of the Maker into you, I swear on Andraste's sanctified tits." Anders smiled at her flinty glare, feeling smug despite the jibe.

"Why Hawke, is that concern?"

"No, it's frustration. If I'm busy saving you, Varric and Carver are exposed to the elements. If you die, there's no one to heal them or safely get them out of here." Anders thought of the three corrupted spiders, the black blood soaking into Carver's sleeves…_no, he's fine. You're just being paranoid. Don't panic Hawke because you're over-reacting. _The thought that Hawke cared about something was a revelation, however.

"It is concern." But if you're so busy looking out for Carver and Varric and I, who watches out for you? Anders thought to himself, watching Hawke tug at her bloody robes and glower straight ahead. Something she'd said weeks ago came back to him then: _This stopped being my family when the last mage blood member died. _No one did, the way she saw it. Anders cleared his throat. "Carver was fairly protective-"

"Are we going to go through this every single time I accidentally stumble upon a selfless act? Leave it, Anders. Let's catch up with Varric and Bother before they poke something that pokes back, shall we?"

She stormed off ahead of him, staff in one hand and a fireball in the other. Small triumphs with Hawke were to be had, little baby steps towards understanding. That's what it would take for them to be able to stand each other without the constant bickering. Without Fenris there to stand behind her and glare, Hawke was almost tolerable. Anders winced at the thought of Hawke and the elf…maybe he'd talk to Hawke about it? With only Carver and Varric there, it was possible that he could without worrying about too much reprisal.

A few days later, at the abandoned thaig, he attempted to casually broach the subject with her:

"So…you like elves?" Hawke shouldered her pack and nodded to an obsequiously overjoyed Bodahn before giving him her full attention.

"Varric told me you were going to do this eventually. Yes, I'm rather fond of Fenris. No, I don't want your opinion." She carefully selected some elfroot potions from a crate, wrapping them in a spare set of robes and gently packing them away in her bag.

"I don't give my opinions because people want to hear them; I tell the truth." _And you need to hear it, Maker help me for being the one to tell you what you cant see with your own bloody eyes. _Fenris may have stood strong beside Hawke, but every little pulse of careless magic that escaped her made the elf grit his teeth and flinch. Hawke may have been rotten to her core, but no mage deserved to find out the hard way that 'normal people' were too horrified by the prospect of magic to ever return those feelings…Anders thought back to Earyn and Cullen and felt Justice snap about in his consciousness like an angry eel.

"Truth is costly and people prefer lies. Phrase your opinion as a lie and I'll take it better." Hawke shrugged, hefting her stave and testing it's balance.

"You want me to lie so that you'll know it's a lie?" The telltale flicker of Hawke's irritation, the tightening of her jaw, was warning enough that the next thing she would say would be insulting.

"Sure, I like pretending. Watch, I'll do it too: all mages are strong and independent and they deserve freedom."

"I'm trying to help you!"

"When you merged with Justice, you were trying to help mages. Stop trying, it never ends well."

"If you get involved with that elf, you're making a mistake. He may love you well enough now, but a dragon cant change it's scales-"

"Flemeth can."

"Flemeth isn't really a dragon, so stop changing the subject. I had a friend in the Circle who used to do that and it doesn't work. Fenris might love you, but do you really want to be with a man who hates what you are so completely? I've seen it; how he looks when you light a torch for him with magic…All those little things. He looks like a spider scuttled across his face-"

"Fenris always looks like that-"

"Hawke, damn it, listen for once in your life-" She darted ahead, calling out to Varric as they descended into a magma lined hallway. The dwarf trotted by, giving Anders a consoling pat on the elbow as he went. And then someone slammed into him from behind and nearly sent him reeling into a pit of lava. "Ow!"

"Damn it, mage. Stop watching my sister's arse and keep moving, would you?"

Anders stepped to the side and allowed Carver to trudge along ahead of him. Of all of them, Hawke's youngest brother was actually the worst off. The damp/dry fluctuations that were a part of life in the Deep Roads were doing terrible things to him. They made his nose run and he twitched at night as he tried to fall asleep, rolling around and gasping for breath. For a moment, Anders thought back to the three blighted spiders…no, it wasn't possible. The Deep Roads just made Hawke unhappy, but they literally made Carver sick. Anders sighed and trudged onward, letting Carver stagger on ahead of him.

Bartrand betrayed them a few hours later. The way it happened…It reminded Anders of when the Templars had thrown him into solitary for the first time. When he was that young, back before he understood what the Circle was really like, he hadn't taken it seriously. They'd chucked him fighting and scratching into a cell and he thought they were going to give him a talking to, not shut him up in the dark forever. The threat of being locked up alone for so long hadn't seemed possible. Surely no one would ever do that to a child. Then, even as an adult…for three long years of nearly complete silence. No one speaking to him, no one caring but Earyn, who after that one confusing night he never saw again. Meals being missed and that knee jerk horror of wondering if he'd been forgotten down there in the dark and the damp. He'd vowed never to be shut up like this again, Bartrand's jeering grating on his eardrums. Hawke clutching at his wrist- The experience made his heart pound, his breath come in short gasps. He may have actually panicked if Hawke hadn't gotten there first.

"No! NO! No, Bartrand! I don't…no, damn!" Hawke flung her body at the stone and bounced off, staggering backwards. She leapt up again and drove her shoulder into the two foot thick stone, slamming a bloodied fist against it with enough force to break her hand. "DAMN IT! LET ME OUT! I'LL KILL YOU, I'LL RIP YOUR BLOODY HEAD OFF!"

"Hawke, sweetheart, it's-" She jerked away from Varric flung herself at the door again with a scream of rage.

"Sister, it's alright-"

"Has to be a way, has to be a way to open it-" With shaking fingers she tried to pry at the edges of the door, her finger nails breaking and ripping to the quick as she clawed and scrabbled like a wolf in a cage. Anders remembered how it felt, that desperation, that feeling of being trapped so completely and utterly that you would never get out. Your lungs in a vice and your head spinning and the urge to break every bone in your body just beating yourself against the door…Hawke leapt again, bouncing off the stone and then back in a crouch, the expression of fierce determination doing little to veil the panic in her eyes. If he didn't stop her, she _would _beat herself to death against it, or kill them all in her frenzy.

"Hawke, stop it! Come here, you use magic and you'll-" He feels her snatch for the Fade, like a child grabbing handfuls of pebbles to throw, and dispels it; pulls the strands from her still loose mental grasp and tosses them back as he grips her wrists and forces them to fold in front of her. "You'll cause a cave-in. Shush, quiet. Deep breaths."

"No-! You don't-! We can't be trapped-"

She struggled futilely for a moment more, bending over and trying to wriggle backwards out of his grasp. An impossible prospect, since she was coming up against his chest. He could feel the rapid, jack-rabbit pounding of her heart where his fingers gripped her wrists.. _Maker, if she wasn't so scared this'd have been me_. It seemed irrational to be so scared of something as passive as being stuck underground but it just felt…like a tomb.

It seemed like an age before she stopped gasping for breath and breathed with him. Her trembling lessened and he felt just the tiniest bit of strength seem to fill her. Like holding a shivering, gasping little fledging and then feeling it beat its wings and struggle against your hands. Hawke steadied, sucking in a heavy breath and letting it out in a weighty sigh. Then, just as Anders was content to experience the triumphant moment that was a becalmed woman in his arms, Hawke's head came up and she clunked him in the chin with it, not altogether on accident.

"Ow!"

"Let me go, Anders." He complied and she slipped out of his grasp, sniffing and wiping at her eyes. She wouldn't look at him, instead meeting Varric's solemn gaze with a drawn expression. "So?"

"So…there's a door on the other side of this chamber. Leads into a spooky hallway but hey, it's a start." Hawke's smile was thin as the dwarf patted her gently on the arm, somehow managing to make the gesture natural and not awkward. She took the steps shakily, meeting a grim-faced Carver and brushing off his shoulder pat.

"Well," Varric whistled, for all his bravado looking a bit unsettled himself. "that was unexpected."

"I expected it," Carver sniffled and cleared his throat. "Sister's never liked being underground. Something about a place they had to hide before Beth and I were born. Stayed down there for a long time, apparently. Being confined makes her…anxious."

"She should try being stuck in the Circle sometime." Anders muttered darkly, mounting the steps beside Varric. The dwarf pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Carver scoffed and ran a hand across his mouth, coughing.

"And there I was starting to respect you, magey."

* * *

><p>Sister was up to something she shouldn't have been. That was life, of course, but still. Usually, whenever she talked to spirits or demons it was in the Fade, on her own terms. Seeing it, seeing an actual demon, was giving me the creeps. A bunch of rocks clustered around a disembodied ribcage type thing shouldn't have made me so nervous but it did. There aren't a whole lot of creatures in this world that can withstand being repeatedly struck by a greatsword. These things hardly even noticed. Maker's breath, we'd just had to fight our way through a small army of them to get here and my blade was never going to be the same.<p>

"Sister, I don't like this-"

"Carver, you can wet yourself later. It's a talking rock." Damn her. Anders, blast the stupid mage, snorted at her comment. It was a dark day in the Void when she and Anders started getting along, of course it would be at my expense

"Shut up and focus on the rock demon, sister-" The words catch in my throat and I try to stop coughing. Damn cold…

"It's not a rock demon, you ignorant sod. It's a demon of hunger-" She turned around and glared at me, ready to get into it over something as stupid as this-

"I'm sure it'll do a bloody lot of good to know what kind of demon it is when it eats us-"

"It's not going to eat us, Bother. It's after the lyrium…something I can sympathise with. It's got a nice little glow, doesn't it?" Trust it to my fool sister to start chatting up a demon like this is some sort of freakish, under-ground tea party and not a fight for our lives. I swear this attitude is what killed Bethany. There really is no justice in the world.

"You seek to leave this place-" Good, at least the demon had the sense to ignore Sister's prattle. "-but you will need my aid to do so."

"Don't listen to it, Hawke. Demons will trip you up every time." Sister turns back to Anders with a twist to her lips that's just like Mother's on a bad day. She'd been tense since Bartrand sealed us in of course, but this was new. When she gets angry, she trembles with it.

" By all means, sit here and lick a vein of lyrium for the rest of your life if you want, but I am going to be home in time for Harvestmere, damn it. Make your offer demon, I make no promises and you'll have none of my blood."

It turns out that the demon doesn't want sister's blood, it wants us to kill something else entirely. Fine, whatever gets us out of the this misery…the dwarf's looking at me. Every time I turn around it's like he's sizing me up for something. One of his bloody stories, probably.

"What is it now, Varric?"

"Oh, nothing. Just wondering what you think of the Deep Roads Cutest Couple-" Who did he-? Oh. The mages were busy squabbling over the demon issue behind me, Sister with her feet planted and her hands on her hips(she looks the very picture of mother when she does that) and Anders waving his arms around like an idiot.

"-Damn it, Anders! We're not bitching about what gets us out of the Deep Roads-"

"IT'S A DEMON!"

"Only a little one! Besides, I hardly think you and Vengeance are in a position to discriminate-"

"It's not the same-"

"Who's the head of this expedition-"

"-it's not safe-"

"LIFE ISN'T SAFE! Deal! It's done! I'll kill whatever it is that's vexing you in exchange for the key!" Sister snapped, turning to the demon. She knew what she was doing…or at least, I hope she did. I coughed hard enough that I spit something up, black in the gloom. Sister glanced up at me, brows furrowed.

"Carver, are you-"

"Fine."

* * *

><p>"Come on! Ah, thank the Maker…halfway there!" Streyga laughed and patted Varric on the head lightly, eager to be free and under the open sky once more. Anders was trudging along halfway between them and a staggering Little Bother. Maker, Leandra was going to be so happy to see them she might even forget to nag them for a week or so. "Hurry up, Carver…always dragging your knuckles…"<p>

"Think we could…take a break? I feel…wrong." Anders stride faltered slightly and he glanced over his shoulder, then turned with an expression of alarm. Hawke felt her breath catch and a flash of panic at that look of wide-eyed worry. _No, it's nothing. Just Anders being a fuss-budget. We're almost through this…_

"Streyga-"

"Don't be a child, Little Bother. We're almost there. Just think…we can drink ourselves sick in the Hanged Man and-"

"Sister, I…" Carver collapsed to his knees, coughing and gasping. Hawke's heart stopped and fear prickled across her skin like a sickness. No, not now. We were so close. He can't be…it's impossible that he…

"Carver? Carver!" Her staff clattered as it rolled down the stairs, forgotten as she grasped her brother's shoulders, trying to keep him up. He slumped against her and she spilled to her knees, her teeth gritted as she dug in her robes for something, unstoppering a health potion. "Come on, Bother. Drink this and stop larking around. You're fine…just a bit fatigued-"

"Hawke. It's the Blight, I can sense it." Anders stood over them both, his expression grim.

"The taint…" Carver coughed wetly, sickeningly as he looked up at her in misery. His dark blue eyes had a glazy, grayish sheen, gelatinous like a few hour old corpse. _Carver!_

"Shut up about the taint!" Streyga swore as the vial dropped from her shaking, sweaty fingers and shattered across the stone. "Attention seeking arsehole, you haven't got the taint."

"Sister," One large, gray skinned hand wrapped it's fingers around her comparatively slender wrist. His tortured eyes, their irises tinged with gray veins gazed into her own sadly. "I'm going to die just like Wesley. I'll be just as dead, just as gone."

"Oh no, you wont. I'm the oldest, I get the most dramatic death." The lame attempt at humour fell flat and she struggled to support his weight, feeling the ache in her shoulders and ignoring it.

"Sister, you'll do it. Please. Won't you?" Carver murmured despondently, his voice hoarse.

"Carver, shut up. You're not…_dying_. AH! It's alright, we can carry you-" She tried in vain to lift his massive bulk but could not. Her feet scrabbled frantically against the weathered stones as she strained. "Damn it! Anders, Varric! Help me-"

"I wont last until the surface, Sister."

"There may be something we can do-" Anders's hand fell on her shoulder and she twisted to look at him, Carver's weight pressing down on her shoulders.

"What? Maker's breath, spit it out, Anders!" Hawke snarled frantically, her eyes wild with thinly veiled fear.

"I stole that map off a Warden who was planning on holding an expedition into the depths in this area. We could try and find them-"

"That's what we'll do, then." She nodded, more to herself than to acknowledge she'd actually heard him. "Help me carry him, please."

"Hawke, there's a price, though. He might not even-"

"Blight take the price-"

"Hawke. Listen to me: He could die anyway-" Hawke ignored Anders blithering as she wrapped an arm around Carver's muscle bound middle and tried to heave him to his feet. At least Varric was standing by to spot the massive warrior if he fell, but Anders was standing there like a disapproving parent counseling her on the dangers of whatever it was he wouldn't shut up about.

" 'Anyway' is better than 'eventually'. Carver, stand up before I beat the living daylights out of you. Here, arm around my neck-Maker, you way a ton." Hawke struggled to maintain her footing on the loose scree and rubble, every muscle in her legs and back trembling with the effort.

"It's muscle." He snapped defensively, sounding a bit more like his old self. Hawke rolled her eyes as Anders moved to allow Carver to put his other arm around his shoulder so they could support the weight evenly between them. Hawke felt a rush of gratitude, followed shortly by irritation when Carver nearly fell on her trying to move away from the healer. "Maker's breath, you two. I've got the taint, not a broken leg-"

"It's not for you, it's for Hawke. She can't carry you by herself, you ungrateful twit." Anders snarled with such ferocity Carver's mouth snapped shut and he swallowed, meekly allowing the mage to help him.

Staggering towards wherever the Wardens were was utter and unrelenting misery. They'd have to pause when they encountered Darkspawn and let Varric use Bianca to pick them off by taking potshots from the shadows. In addition, Hawke could feel Carver starting to worsen. Every step they took he got heavier and she got weaker. The few crumbling stairs they had traversed were an agony, made her muscles twitch and ache with pain. Every once and a while Carver's body would seize with coughs that wracked his frame and he'd choke up blackened, ashy phlegm. The first time this happened, Anders practically shoved her out of the way and clamped a hand over her nose and mouth. Now, she was walking with a kerchief of Varric's over her nose and mouth. 'Just in case' were Anders's words. Still, each time it happened, the healer cast her anxious looks over the top of Carver's head.

"Are we…are we there yet?" Hawke winced at the sound of her brother's pain-laced attempt to joke with them. Anders grunted as he helped heave Carver over a mountain of loose chunks of bedrock, breath catching as he took the full weight of her brother as Hawke struggled to do the same in her stiffened apostate leathers.

"Nearly. We're getting closer…they'll be near one of the proper roads, regrettably." Carver made a soft hacking sound of approval and Hawke frowned, steps faltering slightly.

"Why is that regrettable?" She asked, tripping and feeling the sharp edge of a jagged rock rip through the ruined leather of her boots and scrape her skin.

"Wider tunnels. More direct routes. It sounds wonderful by comparison to this…but it means more darkspawn, less cover. Easy to get-"

"Surrounded. We could get surrounded by darkspawn." Carver shuddered, scrunching his eyelids shut briefly and practically slithering down the gravelly incline and back into a wider corridor. Anders nodded grimly, rivulets of sweat trickling down his face. There was a heavy silence that stretched on into an infinity of stumbling in the semi-darkness and waiting and hoping.

It was at least an hour before Varric-who'd been humming tunelessly for the last ten minutes straight-threw up his hands and viciously cursed his Ancestors. Hawke sighed and sagged a little, Carver perking up beside her at the sound of the unfamiliar oaths issuing from the dwarf's lips. Turning to them, Varric scowled.

"You know what? I hate the Deep Roads." Anders chuckled blackly, helping Carver up the slight incline.

"Oh good, because I was starting to feel alone in that respect."

"Blondie, I haven't got a mind to listen to your bitching. You know what I want right now, what I'm really craving?" Hawke wearily trudged through a questionable looking puddle of water, too tired to try and step around it and ran her tongue over her cracked lips before she spoke.

"Survival? With a side of soft warm bed?"

"Yeah, but besides that." Varric gave her a moment, waiting for someone to guess. Clearly, the three of them were too tired to play this game. It even looked(not to mention felt) like Carver had actually fallen asleep between them. Varric sighed and rolled his eyes, moving to fall into step beside Hawke. "What I'm really craving right now is some Antivan Delight."

There was a moment of silence as the comment sank in and bounced about the exhaustion addled skulls of the weary foursome. Finally, Hawke cleared her throat and shot Varric a measuring look.

"Is that a sex thing?"

"No, Princess. I hate to disappoint you, but it's actually a confection. Made of…this semi-solid stuff? Coagulated jelly. kind of cube shaped with white powdered sugar on them? Any of that ringing a bell?" Varric sighed and rolled his eyes at their ignorance, throwing up his hands in disgust. Carver stirred slightly and coughed, perking up.

"The stuff that tastes like lemons and rose petals? They sell it in Hightown?"

"Yes! That! Really, when we get back to Hightown, I'm going to buy boxes of it. And foist it upon passer-bys." Hawke rolled her eyes and helped Carver over another pile of rubble, wincing at the ache in her shoulders.

"Coagulated lemon jelly with powdered sugar? Varric, don't be disgusting. If I had a lunch to lose, I'd be losing it right now." Anders muttered, his voice hitching with effort. The dwarf hopped over some rocks and looked annoyed, folding his arms over his nearly bare chest.

"Well, Blondie, I don't see you improving the silence-" Fed up and without much preamble, Anders looked over at her.

"Hawke…I know this isn't a brilliant time, but I've been wondering about your tattoos-" Carver's head fell between his shoulders and his lips pulled back over his teeth as he started to laugh so hard he broke off coughing, his shuddering sending pain ricocheting through her taxed muscles. Hawke gave Carver's wrist a tight squeeze as punishment as Varric sidled up to her, eyebrows raised.

"A story behind the ink, Hawke? Indulge us." Hawke sighed as they trudged along and tried to figure out the best way to tell the story and save face.

"It's really not much of a story. I mean-"

"She got piss drunk and went off to go chat up a caravan of Chasind Wilders at the edge of Lothering-"

"I wasn't piss drunk, Carver. You're telling the story wrong. I was fifteen and I'd never touched a drop of alcohol in my life. It was a poor choice to start with wilder brew, I admit-" Hawke caught her breath and helped heave Carver over a fissure in the cracked surface of the road.

"You admit? That stuff almost rivals dwarven ale when it comes to potency-"

"Varric, do you want to hear the story or not? I was fifteen, for the Maker's sake." Hawke snapped defensively, trying to keep Carver on his feet and focus on her story at the same time.

"I just can't believe Leandra and Malcolm let you go see them-"

"Ooooh, they didn't. Sister snuck out."

"Yes, I snuck out. Sadly, I don't remember much of the whole night. Except admiring their tattoos and talking to their…Elder, I think it was? I don't know. A hedge witch, though. Not very skilled. I got drunk enough that I showed her my fire trick. Back then, I wasn't so used to using battle magic. I had more focus because I had to work harder to get it to light at all. I could make shapes-animals and things-out of the flames. She found it fascinating, kept babbling about how I was 'dragon kissed'. Kept calling me that, too. I remember waving my arms and trying to insist that I was Hawke…you know, wing flapping. She just snickered and waved back and said 'Dragon!'. The long and short of it is that I danced, drank and passed out. Woke up in the middle of a meadow the next morning with a monster hang over and these-" Hawke turned her head this way and that to display the tattoos properly, feeling her cheeks colour with a blush. It was kind of embarrassing, to be completely honest. And stupid, she could have gotten herself killed. Anders was watching her with warm brown eyes, a small smile on his face. "-it's…well, I told you it wasn't much of a story."

"I probably would have done the exact same thing at your age." Anders supplied, kicking aside a lump of stone so Carver didn't trip over it. Hawke smiled back at him, even though his gaze was now focused ahead. She would have been furious if he'd started harping about how irresponsible she'd been. "And they're nice tattoos. I mean, they look good. Very…feral."

Feral? Streyga smiled…_yes, feral. I can live with that as an adjective…_

"She made Mother cry. Father sort of hung his head…I think he was just relieved she hadn't been nabbed by templars or something." Carver croaked, doggedly putting one foot ahead of the other. He raised his head and affected a high falsetto: " 'Oh, Maker's blood! Whatever have you done to your beautiful face! You look like some kind of street rat! Oh, Malcolm! Whatever shall we do? No man will want to marry you with these hideous marks on your face! And you smell like a brewery nah nah nah blah blah blah Maker preserve me!' Truly, it was one of the funniest things I'd ever seen."

"I like how her first thought was 'marriage'. I think that was when she started pinning her hopes for the Amell line on Bethany." Hawke muttered wryly, the conversation help take her mind off the fact that they were now on a widened road. Anders had perked up now, and was ushering them along slightly more quickly then was comfortable. Carver's brow furrowed and he winced.

"Right, then Bethy turned out to be a mage, too." Anders's head swung around at this and his expression darkened. Carver didn't seem to notice, sucking in a reedy breath. "I…feel bad for Mother. She loved Beth…but Maker, do you remember how much she cried when we found out?"

"I remember." _I remember how much they both cried when they realised I was a mage. _That had been awful. Father had stopped letting her play outside by herself. Leandra hadn't even been able to look at her without sobbing for weeks. And she hadn't had a sibling to share the misery with for three years. It was like she'd done something wrong and had no idea what it was. Hawke snorted and hung her head, feeling a heaviness in her chest. _I was like a little curse, a reminder of the magic they couldn't escape._

"That's…awful. I never thought of it that way. I…" Anders murmured softly, as if he'd heard her internal musing. "I…my father couldn't stand the fact that I was a mage. He was the one who called the templars down on us…but neither he nor my mother were mages. It doesn't excuse them, but-"

"Yes, I was disappointing them from when I was very, very young. Nothing like an early bloom of magic to put a damper on that sense of childish wonder." She didn't want to talk about it. The memories, the feelings…they were too raw to share with Anders. Too close to the heart. And yet, deep down, she knew she'd never be able to speak freely about it to Fenris. Maker and Andraste knew she wanted to, but there were some things only another mage could ever understand. Fenris distrusted her magic enough already…

"Darkspawn." Anders stopped dead and Carver nearly plowed into the ground. Hawke felt panic seize her chest. They never should have started talking, never should have distracted him. Anders glanced over at her and his eyes were wide with alarm. "From all sides. At least twenty-"

A volley of crude black arrows came buzzing out of the red tinged gloom ahead of them. Anders jerked out from under Carver's beefy arm and threw up a barrier that sent the deadly storm skittering off in various directions around them. Something about the speed of his reaction was breathtaking, the ferocity of the sheer power of the Fade that she felt thrum in her chest as he cast. Before the alien presence of Justice seeped in like a sickness-Hawke struggled with Carver as his legs went out from under him.

"We've got company!" Hawke pulled her arm from around Carver's waist, helping him stagger to the floor and ignoring his frantic look.

"Sister, behind you!" Hawke turned with her staff in hand just in time to catch the rusted hack-saw like blades of her attacker. She snarled like a cornered wolf and let loose a blast of fire that wound around her staff like a serpent, lashing the darkspawn in it's twisted face. The creature stumbled back with a howl and Hawke adjusted her grip on the staff and stunned two more with a vicious sweep that ended with her burying the bladed ended in the first 'spawns skull.

"This isn't going well!" Varric shouted, rolling backwards to avoid the miasmic flask he'd used to stun his five attackers. Hawke coiled her magic and flung a fireball full of blistering heat at the incapacitated opponents, twisting so her back was to Carver and Anders.

Varric was right, there were too many. Without Carver, they were outmatched and tired as they were and low on supplies….it didn't bear thinking about it. But there was nowhere left to run- Hawke turned to see Anders looking over at her, a look of despair on his face. Hawke grabbed a combustion grenade from her hip pouch and chucked it into the writhing blackness beyond. Fuck dying in this pit, she was going to give life her best shot, damn it.

"How close did you say the Wardens were?"

"Less than a mile? I'm not entirely sure…Hawke, what are you planning? Hawke, don't-!"

"Watch Carver. I'll be right back."

"HAWKE!" She ran for where the rubble made almost a natural stair to massive fallen pillar blocking their way-_always with the pillars, what was it with dwarven architecture? Clearly compensating for something_.- and pulled on her mana as she leapt down on the other side and into the small hoard of attackers, force pulling them inwards so they all clustered in a screaming pile. _Pull of the Void. _She laced the pull with flame, making it big and flashy, then jerked both arms up in an abrupt movement and lifted a good fifteen or so darkspawn off the ground and then curled her fingers and twisted her wrist, slamming them back down so loudly she heard bones crack and necks snap. _Maker's Fist. _Before those that had survived could stagger to their feet, she sucked a deep breath in and slapped the bedrock with the flat of her hand, loosing a telekinetic burst that sent tongues of fire flaring up. She had enough mana left for one last trick-one that would hopefully alert the wardens and have them come running…

"Anders! Shield them or get out of the way!"

"Hawke, don't you _dare_-" Hawke held her palms a hand width apart, her magic stirring the stale air of the Deep Roads into a hurricane force gale as the kernel of flame bloomed between her hands, the remaining creatures closing on her with slavering jaws and crooked sneers. Drawing on the power of the Fade felt like biting into succulent, ripe fruit. It was glorious.

She sent the tiny ball of flame upwards, like she was tossing a ball. Held it there for a moment as it suddenly blossomed and grew to be ten times the size it had been seconds earlier-_just a little closer_-and unleashed the raging inferno of a firestorm. Magic channeled through her, fierce and sharp and powerful. Giant balls of flame rained down from the ceiling and lit the ruins of the Deep Roads in flashes of golden light, turning the darkspawn and their corpses to ash.

Hawke felt a strange, heady dizziness as the flames started to die. She struggled to remember how to stop the spell, how to…how to…A vision of a silhouette against the flames, a few silhouettes in armor. But one coiled in a graceful leap, knees tucked up to the chest, hands clutching daggers…a black shadow against the raging red of fire…Hawke was on her knees, falling forward…falling forever…

* * *

><p>"-DAMN IT, HAWKE! Wake up!" Something stuck her hard across the side of her face and her eyes snapped open. She was lying on the sooty ground, booted feet all around her and her head resting in someone's lap. Hawke shut her eyes and tried to get her bearings. Nothing felt agonizingly painful so far…so nothing broken. She must have been knocked out…she felt exhausted, there was barely a drop of mana left in her. "That was <em>by far <em>one of the stupidest things you've _ever_ done! You could have killed yourself-"

"Leandra-?"

"Oh Bugger the Maker. First I'm Fenris, now I'm Leandra-" Anders. I told Anders to watch Carver-! Hawke bolted upright so quickly she nearly smacked him in the face. Hands came down on her shoulders and pushed hard. "Hawke, stay down."

"No-! Ow, where is-" Hawke struggled and only managed to get herself into a sitting position with her head between her knees. Maker, she felt awful

"Here, Sister. I…what did you do?"

"Nearly killed us all is wha she did, shem." Hawke glanced between her brother and the pair of boots that was addressing her. The voice sounded Dalish but since when did the Dalish wear shoes? "We are lucky her magic did not bring this foul durgen'len death tunnel falling down atop of us like the wrath of the Forgotten Creators."

"I was trying to…get your attention…" Hawke told the toe of the boots, pressing her temple to her wrists and huffing a weary sigh.

"You have it. Be glad I didna find you skulking about any earlier, or I'd have your ears as trophies." Hawke swayed a little on her hands and knees and tried to riddle that last threat out, glancing at Anders in confusion. He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes helplessly, pushing himself to his feet.

"Ears?"

"It's a Dalish thing. Listen, Mahariel-"

"Mahariel?" Varric boots went ambling by Hawke's line of vision and she gave up trying to stand and flopped over on her back. "_The _Mahariel? The Dalish woman who single-handedly slayed the Archdemon and saved Ferelden? Blondie, I have to say, when you claimed to know the Hero of Ferelden…well, I thought you were full of shit. A pleasure to make your acquaintance-"

"Quiet, Durgen'len. I dinna have time for your wagging tongue." Hawke saw the look of affront flicker across Varric's face and heaved a breathless giggle. "Anders-shem, Bor-assan shem. Pick up this…mage shem-"

"Her name is Hawke.""I dinna care what her name is so long as she is no longer rolling around on the floor like a legless halla. Now." Anders arm wrapped around her middle and she sagged against him, clinging to his coat. Another arm looped around her side and Hawke glanced over. A dark haired man with a handsome, angular face was looking at her with mild concern.

"My lady, if you need the support."

"I can take it from here, Bore and Ass." The man shot Anders a withering look and withdrew his arm, forcing her to lean heavily on the mage. Anders was too busy glowering at Bore and Ass to be bothered by it. Hawke grinned at the look of resentment on the men's faces and felt a little bit stronger for the comic relief.

"Friends of yours, Anders?"

"Of a sort. We used to have the most darling taint filled slumber parties together. Varnish each other's toe nails and tell scary stories-" The Dalish woman lunged forward and smacked Anders with her bow, hard enough to make him yelp.

"Quiet, shemlen. We havena the time for your whining when the boy is dying of Blight. You and your Hawke shem and the durgen'len-"

"If we're going to refer to me with slurs, I'd like to say the I answer to 'dwarf' just fine-" The bow lashed out and rapped Varric lightly on the forehead.

"-the _noisy _durgen'len are close to the surface. I sense no sickness in them. But the Carver shem is ill. I am surprised you didna sense it earlier, Anders shem-""He did. We know." Hawke blurted, struggling to find the energy to stand on her own. The Dalish woman regarded her with a measuring and mildly disgusted gaze.

She was a bit shorter than your average elf, but she had a way of standing that bespoke authority. Mahariel was used to being obeyed without question, comfortable in her position of command. Her eagle sharp eyes missed nothing, glittering a dark green hazel in the diffuse gloom of the Deep Roads. Extensive vallaslin traced her angular feature's, curling around the edges of her curt little mouth like thorny, winding vines. Long blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun at the back of her head and one of her pointed ears had a nick out of it near it's curved tip. Two daggers were sheathed over her shoulder's, their handles as wickedly curved as the blades themselves. "We were hoping you could…cure him."

"Cure him? Do I look like a healer to you, shemlen? You are asking me to make your brother a warden. We are not a charity-"

"It wouldn't be charity! Carver is an extremely skilled warrior-"

"I dinna need another lazy shem-" Hawke felt her patience strain and snap at the words 'lazy shem'. Thank the Maker she didn't have any mana left to strike at this nasty little elf.

"My brother is not just some 'lazy shem'. He's…he was a member of King Cailan's army during the battle of Ostagar. He knows how to fight, he killed an ogre-" That was a lie, she'd killed the ogre. But Hawke was desperate, glancing at where Carver was grey as a corpse and slumped against a crumbled piece of pillar. Mahariel looked unimpressed, folding her arms over her chest and glancing at the lump of quivering muscle that was Carver.

"Carver-shem. Walk to me." There was a moment of silence as Carver lifted his head wearily. Hawke felt her breath catch and she pressed her face into Anders's feathered shoulder to hide her expression. Oh Maker. He looked like death.

"I…I d-d-don't think I can-" Carver murmured, pushing himself off the pillar and gasping with agony. Hawke felt the ache in the back of her throat that preempted tears. Oh Maker, maybe they should have killed him. He was in so much pain. Mahariel sniffed, glaring at him and calling back with her heavy, clipped dalish accent.

"Ah, it is as I expected, shemlen. Too weak." Hawke turned back to snarl at the woman, only for Anders to give her a harsh squeeze and shake his head. Carver coughed and stood a little straighter, taking a shaky step away from the pillar.

"I am…not." His sword made a grating sound across the stone, it's hilt hanging limply from his fingers. Mahariel glanced at him again, tight lipped and with her eyebrows raised. Hawke felt a growing fire of hatred for the elf stoke to life in her stomach, a rage so strong she wanted to spit with it. Mocking her dying brother. How dare she.

"Ah, and you fight with a steel great sword. That is clumsy, it teaches bad swordsmanship. Typical of shems to forge their blades like babes playing with heavy clay. Dalish make their great swords of ironwood. The Deep Roads are already full of clumsy shems who tried to play at war, we call them ghouls-"

"I am not clumsy!" The harsh criticism seemed to inject a little life back into Carver, and the taint gray of his eyes got fiercer somehow. A little brighter, like the Amell blue was trying to shine through the haze. Carver took three more steps, nearly pitching to the ground. _You tell her, Brother. Tell her where she can shove her Dalish blades. _"And I'm not a darkspawn…"

"Prove it, shem. Walk to me." Carver took another agonized step and Hawke cried out as his legs tangled-No! NO! Brother! Get up, you have to get up-and he went down gasping and sucking air like an aging plowhorse unable to take another step or it's heart would burst. The Dalish turned, a look of cool arrogance on her face.

"No, not yet. But soon enough. _Ma halam, ir abelas_." The woman sniffed and turned on her heel. "Nath-Annie-Yall shem, we are done here."

"No, you bloody damn well are not." Hawke lunged forward as Anders caught her by the elbows and she slammed back into his chest. "Anders, take your blighted hands off me-"

The damned Dalish woman was still walking away unconcerned, uncaring. Blight take her and her pride.

"Hawke, it's no good. I'm sorry-"

"No. Get off me-" The mind blast was small, but it was enough to knock him back. Hawke didn't even know what she was doing at that point, all she wanted was to grab this woman by her pointy ears and force her to help her brother. She couldn't lose Carver, too. She'd promised Leandra, she'd promised Father. She strode forward, past Carver who was trying to say something she was past hearing with the sound of the blood roaring in her ears. She could feel her magic surging as she stormed after the retreating wardens. "Stop! Hey, I'm talking to you! You can't just leave him to die and get away with it-"

It was an accident, really. The force magic pull. It never would have worked if they'd been prepared and ready for it. As it was, she was so distracted and drained she only managed to get a few of them. The Dalish leader was one of them, though. She'd yet to see a rogue who could evade a good magical yank on the collar. Anders yelled something incoherent and Hawke had a moment of sheer triumph as the Warden Commander skidded across the floor on her prim little Dalish arse and-used her momentum to recover and rolled to her feet not ten yards from where Hawke had cast, a snarl on her lips and her arm out as she threw her dagger. Quick, rogue's are quick-

"NO!" There was a clang and a clatter and suddenly Carver was lying at her feet, gasping like a fish, his arms outstretched and his fingers curled loosely around the handle of his great sword. A few feet from it lay the dagger he'd knocked aside.

"_Shemlen'alas_!" The Dalish woman spit viciously somewhere in the back ground as Anders rushed over. Hawke could care less.

"Mahariel, wait-"

"Carver! You great lug-headed, ninny fool, idiot…" Hawk fell to her knees, heedless of the angry wardens surrounding them. Carver flopped onto his back and grinned bitterly, lips peeled back from his teeth in a pained grimace.

"Saved your arse, Sister. Not that anyone'll ever believe it." Hawke stared at him and felt helpless. Carver was so young, it wasn't fair. He hadn't done anything yet; she was the one who should be dying of taint…

"You did, Brother. You saved my silly magical arse. You're always saving it. Every day." Carver rolled his eyes at the sentiment and his breath hitched, clutching tighter at her fingers.

"Yeah…yeah…" He murmured breathily, eyes losing their focus and breath slowing. Hawke felt panic knife at her breast as his eyes drifted shut.

"Carver! Carver, don't go to sleep. No. Carver, stay-" Hands fell on her shoulders and she felt someone yank her to her feet, away from her brother and pull her into a crushing hug that was just as much a gesture of comfort as it was restraint. She squirmed in Anders's arms and he turned sideways so that she could still see Carver's prone form. She blinked away tears and looked down at her unconscious sibling, watching the Dalish bend and check his pulse with a detached look on her vallaslin traced face. The elf glanced up and met Hawke's eyes, a look halfway between respect and displeasure in her gaze.

"We will take him. Nath-Annie-Yall, you and Stroud will carry him." In a liquid quick movement, the woman snatched up her dagger and sheathed it over her shoulders. "I will be along shortly."

Hawke watched the two men lift Carver unconscious form between them, his eyes fluttering open and seeking hers. She freed one of her arms from Anders's grasp and brushed her fingers ghostingly quick across her brother's shoulder.

"Carver-"

"Sister-"

"If you want your brother to live, there is no time for good byes. Nath-Annie-Yall, now." Carver's eyes met hers as they dragged him off, a tiny, weary little smile on his face. Anders and the dalish woman were talking, Varric's hand was gently patting her arm, but all Hawke could see was Carver's smile. How long had it been since she'd last seen Carver smile? Soon, he'd just be a memory that'd haunt her sleeping hours. Another body to add to the ever growing list of people her blighted magic couldn't do anything for. _Maker, don't cry. You cant cry…he's bloody fine_. She'd never see him again and Leandra- Hawke's breath caught and she sagged against Anders. Bitterly, she wished he was Fenris. The only reason Anders was still holding her was so that she didn't try to kill the Dalish. He shouldn't have bothered, she barely had the energy to stand, let alone kill a quick-footed elf.

"Commander-"

"Don't call me Commander, Anders shem. You know I am no longer your superior. An I thought a mage I helped escape Vigil's Keep would have better sense then to crawl back to the Deep Roads on his belly-"

"I didn't come back of my own volition, I owed-"

"You owe nothing-"

"Neither do you and you're back down here, what's your excuse?" There was a moment of silence where the two Warden's scowled at each other and then Mahariel sighed, shaking her head.

"I am getting too old for fighting with bothersome little shems. The circumstances are complicated. It doesna matter, Anders. An you, asha-shem-""You can call me Hawke." Whatever asha'shem meant, it certainly wasn't a deference or a sign of respect. Or an apology.

"Hawke shem: If you attack me again, ar tu na'din." Mahariel inspected the edge of her blade and made an exasperated sound when she spotted the nick Carver's sword had made in the metal, growling out the last between her teeth. I will kill you. Merril had taught her that one one night at the Hanged Man.

"Ma emma harel, tas." Mahariel's eyes narrowed, but she let the threat slide and sheathed her blade.

"Time is wasted by talk. Do you know the path to the surface, Anders shem?"

"Yes, Comman-Mahariel." The elf gave him an odd look, bird like as she cocked her head to the side. She beckoned with one tattooed hand and Anders hesitated before following her a short distance off. Hawke watched them go, trembling head to toe. With neither Carver nor Anders at her back, she felt strangely exposed…

"Hey, Princess. Is it just me or does Blondie have some 'history' with the Hero of Ferelden?" Hawke shook herself and looked down at Varric, feeling suddenly guilty. Frankly, with all that was going on, she'd forgotten he was there.

"That's the famed Hero of Ferelden? I heard she was a Dalish elf, but I didn't think-I mean, well…she's a piece of work." Hawke ground out, her hands on her hips as she glowered at the pair. Varric snorted and then burst out laughing, somewhat grimly. Hawke smacked him in the side of the head and he stopped, feigning offense.

"Ow, Hawke. That hurt. You calling anyone 'a piece of work'…it just makes me laugh, is all. Really, though. That's the look of an elf and mage who have been through something."

"Been through something? Maker's breath, now you're just grasping for straws…"

"Look." Hawke looked just in time to see the frigid little pointy eared wench stand on her tiptoes and murmur something in Anders ear. Hawke exhaled in a hiss of breath. They did have history, didn't they? An irrational quirk of jealousy surged in her chest before she tamped it down with reason. Anders shared history with this elf had probably been the deciding factor in the Warden's hauling Carver off. She should be grateful for it.

Anders. It was all Anders. Without him, Carver would have died; would have begged her to kill him before the end. He might still, but the ex-warden had given him a chance he never would have had. Anders turned from the little elf, who cast them one wary look before stepping back into the shadows and vanishing from sight.

* * *

><p>Anders followed Mahariel a short distance off, the elf's delicate fingers hooked into his gauntlet as she tugged him aside. He stepped in front of her nervously as she pulled him to a stop, forest green eyes boring into his own with the ever-present intensity. She looked older than when he'd seen her last, some new lines of weariness in her furrowed forehead. There was a new tightness to her delicate little mouth a carefulness as she reached up to pinch the bridge of her vallaslin traced nose and then fixed him with a glare.<p>

"I told the others you were dead, that I killed you and your spirit. Do you seek to turn me into a fool, shemlen?"

"I…no. I was coming down here to-! Because I…" Anders looked down into Mahariel's hard expression and swallowed his excuses. She wouldn't have listened to them, anyway. She folded her arms over her chest and shot a glance at where Hawke and Varric were standing, Hawke glowering in their direction.

"A wild shemlen mage? You have a bondmate now?" Mahariel's sharp gaze flicked back to his, her eyebrows raised.

"No! I mean we're just friends…hardly even that, really. Just…it's complicated." Tallesei Mahariel had not changed much in the year and a half since he'd seen her last. He'd fully expected that to be the last time he or anyone ever saw her again. She'd seemed dead set on finding her clan when they'd finally parted ways just outside of Denerim. "You came back?"

"I am their Commander. It is the closest thing you shem's hae to a Keeper." She muttered darkly, a derisive snort issuing from her lips at the thought. "Besides, I hae no clan an' I'm no use to anyone in the wilds."

"You do have a clan. I've met them…in fact, Merril's with us now." Surprise flitted across Tallesei's face and she scowled at him like he might be lying to her.

"Merril? I…how is Merril?" Obsessed with blood magic, that's how she is.

"She's well. She asks me to tell her stories about you-"

"You ha' better nau be filling her head with any stories of me. If she wants to know, she canna come ask me herself. An you can tell Marethari…jus' tell her I'm deid and see if she evfen sheds a tear. Na, tell them nothing. Save tha I hate them. Tha clan abandoned me a long time ago." Mahariel shook her head and spit angrily, crossing her arms over her chest and sighing. "You ha best be going, Tamle-_Anders_-shem."

The elven rogue took one step back into the shadows and vanished, the only sound was his own breathing and the soft near silence of her retreating footsteps. Not a goodbye, no. Mahariel never said goodbye. A personal quirk. That and calling him 'Tamlen'. For the longest time, he'd thought it was elvish for something. It wasn't. Velanna had finally told him the story once he'd harassed her about it repeatedly. Tamlen had been their Commander's closest friend, her lethallin, her sa'lath. _You have his face…in a soft, pudgy, shemlen way._ They'd all bet on Velanna and Tallesei getting along, but it didn't happen. The dalish mage was more than willing to spill the details about Mahariel's past. _What happened to him? _Velanna had regarded him coldly over her tankard of ale, with the typical Dalish disdain and swallowed before answering with a savage snap of her dagger sharp voice: _His clan abandoned him for lost and he died of taint corruption. More or less._

"Be seeing you." He murmured to the emptiness, turning and trudging back to Hawke. He wouldn't, though. He'd be lucky to ever see Mahariel again. Or unlucky, as it were.

Hawke stood waiting for him, her arms crossed over her chest. Anders heaved a tremendous sigh…All I want is a nice girl, a good meal and the right to shoot lightning at fools. It seemed like an age since he'd said the words-**That is not what you said. Nice. You misremember. **Anders thought back, the spirit was right. A pretty girl. Anders looked up and met the stark sapphire gaze of the woman he'd re-entered the Deep Roads for.

"Are we going? Can we…please head back to Kirkwall, now?" Hawke's voice broke at the pause and she swallowed hard. After all that snarling at me, all that worry…she'd lost Carver anyway. But at least she hadn't had to kill him, or leave him to die of taint corruption. Anders swallowed and wet his lips with his tongue, trying to think of what to say. There was nothing.

"I…yes, we can leave." Anders murmured, setting a hand on Hawke's arm. "He's strong, he'll make it as a warden-"

"I know." Hawke hissed, yanking her arm out of his reach and storming away. "Let's get out of here."

Anders sighed and trudged along beside Varric, letting Hawke lead. Always letting Hawke lead.

"That's too much woman for you, Blondie. Trust me on this. You two together won't just cause waves, you two'll be the end of each other." The statement was so quiet for a moment Anders didn't even know if it was meant to be heard.

"The thought never crossed my mind. Wouldn't want to ruin your novel." He retorted, giving the bleak blackness of the Deep Roads an imploring look.

"I wasn't talking about my novel."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's End Note:<strong> Soooo it was long. Sorry DX but...it had Antivan(Turkish) Delight in it! :D Which, I'm thinking, might also be a euphemism for a sex thing. I'll have to ask Zevran, he'd know :P XD Also, Mahariel has a thick Welsh/Dalish accent, don't know how well I did showing it. Nath-Annie-Yall is Nathaniel Howe which every time I tried to speak it with the tradish Dalish accent it just came out garbled. She's also in the habit of calling him Bor'assan shem, which is Dalish for 'Bow human' or 'Archer' but it's always been an idea in my head that Anders would capitalize on the similar sounding, common tongue insults... any case, hope you enjoyed and review! :D


	12. Moments Betwixt

**Author's Note:** Hello again! :D So this is the post Deep Roads chapter, which was going to be longer, but I thought this was more palatable. I played around a bit with POVs, forgive me. So you'll randomly be hearing from Cullen 0_0. What can I say? I like the guy despite obvious failings in the templar department. There's some significant Fenris here and there will be some more in the chapters to come. Anders too, but I just felt like inquiring parties aught to know. Also, Sebast's back. Enjoy and review and tell me what you think. I have a chapter all lined up and waiting so…. O_0 Donations to the Chantry and the Mage Underground and the Feed Theedog Steak funds are always accepted in the form of feedback. Much love! :D

"_You cannot friend a hawk, they said, unless you are a hawk yourself, alone and only a sojourner in the land, without friends or the need of them." _**~ Stephen King, **_**The Gunslinger**_

Cullen trudged into the Templar Mess from the boiling noontide heat, shucking off his gauntlets and looking around the large hall. It was a simple, square room, lined with tables and benches from wall to wall, light spilling through the bars on the windows in stripes of pallid silver and glinting off the armored men and women it housed. There was an unusual amount of excitement in the hall today, and rather than split off into separate cliques as they were wont to do, they were clustered up near one of the windows. Wiping sweat from his brow, Cullen helped himself to a tray full of food and made for the group.

"If you're all betting again, I'm afraid I'm going have to ask you to disper-Mistress Hawke." Cullen stopped short, recruits scrambling to make a space for him on the bench.

Hawke was, as always, an arresting sight. She was out of place, her light armour a patch of cloth in the sea of shifting steel, her wrists and hands sheathed in a pair of fingerless gloves. She met his eyes and smiled, beckoning him and slapping a hand down over a pair of dice and sliding them over to Karras. With the same hand she'd used to beckon him with, she flipped a silver in the direction of one of the recruits.

"There. You win. Here I thought it was impossible to slip by the Great Knight Captain Cullen and yet somehow, I managed it. I'm sneakier than I thought." Hawke chuckled, taking a swig from the tankard beside her and leaving Keran drinkless. The lady mercenary-_Smuggler, actually. But, if you knew that, I wouldn't be one, now would I?_-always seemed to be laughing at her own private joke, had an effortless kind of joviality that drew people to her. _Just like…no. Enough_. Cullen pushed down the memory before it could resurface. _Besides, Surana had been a mage before…before then. _"Don't look so forlorn, Knight Captain. I'm sure you'll catch me eventually. Being caught is as inevitable and inexorable as death for someone like me."

"I'm sure so long as you stay on the right side of the law for the most part and continue to help us put down a few rogue mages, the templars can assure you immunity. We are nothing if not generous to our friends, serrah." He carefully seated himself across from her, sliding his tray into place in front of him. Was he imagining the bitterness, the challenge in those dark blue eyes? One moment, exchanging harmless banter with the recruits and the next as cold and focused as the most disciplined blade. Many a time, he'd been tempted to be more insistent that she join the templars, a salary had to be better than the scant coin he could throw at her when she completed odd jobs for the Order.

"But we're even more generous if you're one of us, is what he's trying to say. I'd even be willing to share my bed in the barracks with you when you join up, if you know what I mean." Ser Karras leered at her, slinking a mailed arm around her shoulders. Hawke expertly shrugged out from under it and gave the man a shove that was a tad more forceful than was probably necessary, the smile on her face tight with strain.

"Karras: Behave yourself." Cullen snapped, shooting the man a glare. "However, joining the Order might be more beneficial to you and your family than merely scrounging for our leavings. A woman of your talent and uncanny ability to root out apostates would surely rise through the ranks quickly."

Hawke smiled at him over the rim of her tankard and sighed, setting it aside and standing up to stretch.

"Leaving already, Mistress Hawke?" Keran looked up at her guilessly, baby face reflecting his disappointment. Hawke ruffled the boys hair and smiled.

"Oh, my people need me. Besides, I always find the recruitment talks a little taxing."

"I'll escort you out."

"Thanks." Hawke hooked an arm under his and rolled her eyes at the jeering that followed them. Cullen felt the blood rush to his face and cursed the blush to the Void. Hawke was surprisingly considerate and pretended not to notice, raising a hand and making a rude gesture at the various catcallers as she fairly dragged him out the door.

"Hawke, I implore you to reconsider: Our order needs more good men and women in it-"

"That was always Carver's dream. To become a Templar…" Hawke gave a queer little half smile that didn't quite reach her eyes as they stepped out into the main body of the Gallows.

"Your brother is also welcome of course-"

"Carver became a Warden, actually. Not his choice, not mine." Hawke looked him in the eyes in a way that made him squirm. Or maybe it was just the mere thought of Warden's. _Duncan came too late to save her from Jowan's foolishness…_

"I'm s-sorry. Perhaps you might…" Might what? See him again? Unlikely. He stood there fumbling for something to say for a moment with Hawke eyeing him curiously. She gave him a moment more to come up with something to say, which only made him more self-conscious. Mercifully, she finally spoke, her characteristic lightness smoothing over the awkward silence with it's assurance:

"It's a nice thought, Cullen. But I'm just not what you're looking for in a Templar. Trust me. Smuggler's honour." Hawke took a few mincing steps backwards, placing a palm over her heart and half bowing to him.

"Do smugglers have honour?" He called, a smile creeping over his lips despite himself. Hawke made a face and waved in a dismissive gesture.

"Thought that counts. I'll send Carver your love…you know, if he's still kicking. Give Thee a scratch behind the ears for you." Hawke spun and put her back to the Gallows, sauntering away and leaving him to clank a few paces after her.

"Hawke! Are you going somewhere?" Hawke half turned back to him, thumbs hooked through her belt. He was stung again by the memory of Surana, the quick smile that hid so much, the smooth candidness. Something thickened in his throat and he swallowed hard to try and rid himself of the feeling.

"Maybe. I haven't decided yet. Thinking I like the sound of rum. In Rivain, possibly. I hear they have fish custard in Starkhaven. I'll raise a glass to you wherever I end up." With those last parting words, Hawke walked away down the steps and left him standing alone; for once thinking of something other than the heat and the mages or anything else.

* * *

><p>Athenril strode along the dark alley, two of her own people tailing her and keeping an eye out for pursuers. There were none, as she'd expected. But you couldn't be too careful down here and she might need those two if Hawke turned out to be in a less than clement mood. Which, in all likelihood, was very possible. Hawke had chosen one the darkest and least used passages of Darktown to make her temporary hideout in. But higher than the truly desperate, dry enough that she wouldn't catch one of the myriad of diseases refugees so often developed from breathing the rancid, moldy air. Halfway between the old smuggling caverns and the refugee hovels. To the untrained eye, the place looked deserted. Athenril regarded the dig marks where a ladder had been placed, dragged back up into a crevice part of the way up the solid rock wall.<p>

"Hawke, you home?"

"Go away, Athenril." Came the disgruntled reply, a shuffling in the darkness.

"You weren't very good at hide and seek when you were a kid, were you?" Athenril neatly dodged the miniature fireball and folded her arms over her chest. "Come on, Hawke. Play nice. I brought you a gift."

"Leave it there."

"How about you come down here and get it and meanwhile you can listen to a proposition I have for you?" There was a distinct sound of cursing and Hawke poked her head out of the cave, glowering down at the smuggler. Athenril beckoned, giving the bottle of Tevinter wine laced with lyrium a little shake.

"Proposition! I've got plenty of coin, Athenril. I don't need to work for you anymore."

"Sure, you will have plenty of coin once Varric sells off all that treasure. But right at this moment? You're broke, Hawke." Athenril craned her neck back to try and catch a better glimpse of Hawke where she hid in the shadows.

"Not so. The Templars are paying me pretty generously for every mage I bring them."

"So that's why they've all gone to ground. Can't get a decent battlemage for love or money these days. Except for you, of course." Mages were a useful asset for any good smuggling operation. Healers were better, of course, but Hawke had proved invaluable during that first year of service. Like all apostates, Hawke was a talented liar. When her tattoos were covered up, she had the look of a woman with breeding. When they weren't, she looked mean and chasind enough to scare off competition. And when it came to combat, there wasn't mage she'd seen with nearly as much raw talent. With a few more mages like her, someone could rule the Kirkwall underworld and never want for anything.

"You offering love? Because I'm not in the mood." Came the snappish reply, edged with Hawke's characteristic snark.

"Must be getting pretty dangerous to bring them in on your own, not to mention the templars must be getting suspicious you haven't joined up. Or is your boyfriend the Knight Captain keeping the heat off? You'll excuse the phrase."

"Their order doesn't let the stupid ones fraternize. Besides…" Hawke made a disgusted face. "Just…no."

"So you're saying that you're to proud to go sleep on one of your rabble of friends doorsteps? And you're what, skulking down here without food? How much longer do you think you're gonna last, huh? I don't know if your thieving skills have gotten any better since the last time we worked together but I doubt it-" Hawke didn't even bother with a ladder, dropping from her hideout with a surprising amount of grace for a mage. Athenril trailed off and gave Hawke some space. Streyga watched her with a wary expression, picking up the bottle and using that nifty force trick of her's to pop the cork out of the bottle. Carefully-_she's hurt, or sick_-Hawke settled herself against the wall and took a swig from the bottle.

"This doesn't mean I accept. I'm just…drinking." Hawke sighed and leaned her head back against the stone and closed eyes. Athenril sat beside her, choosing her words carefully:

"So…Leandra kicked you out finally? I figured it would be her, Gamlen hasn't got the balls." Hawke silently took another swig of wine, the liquid striking the glass with a sloshing plink sound, dark blue gaze resting on nothing. Family was a sore spot for Hawke, one that could be exploited. "Carver-"

"Dead. Gone. No one tells me anything. Last time I saw him, there was a tiny, bitchy little elf dragging him off to go become a Warden. I've got Anders to thank for that." Hawke's sentences were short, brutal and sharp, her words striking like blows. Her next swig was more enthusiastic. Athenril pretended to gaze up at the ceiling with feigned disinterest, arms folded over her chest.

"If you really blamed that healer, you wouldn't be saving his ass every time the templars came knocking."

"Hardly. I just redirected the last two." Hawke's relationship with the Healer of Darktown was allegedly a complicated one. Not surprising. For reasons Athenril had never been able to discover, Hawke had a fierce objection to rebel mages. Those who lay low and kept their mouths shut were less likely to find themselves being marched to the Gallows or ratted out to the Templar hunters. Still, Hawke had a queer and not altogether consistent code of honour when it came to those sorts of things. Thus far, the Healer was still free at her sufferance.

"And paying his protection fee to the Coterie? That's got to have put you out food money for at least three months." The Coterie's prices were steep and they were too widespread and powerful to scare into submission. The fact that Hawke had consented to deal with them for her friend the Darktown Healer was huge. She'd be properly in their sights now if she hadn't been already, a dangerous prospect for a lone outlaw. Especially one who was an apostate. "I didn't think you stuck your neck out for anyone, let alone ask to get your throat slit on their behalf-"

"I commit selfless acts of kindness quite a lot, actually. And yet every time people act as if it's a surprise." Hawke rolled her eyes skyward and took another sip of the wine, making a careless dismissive gesture. "Not that it hasn't been fun discussing my myriad of motives with you, but if your quite finished-"

"You'd think that sort of kindness might at least earn you the safety of a bed in that clinic, though-"

"If I want lice and diseases, I'll get them on my own terms. He can keep his dirty clinic." Hawke snapped, clunking the lip of the bottle against her teeth and wincing.

"Or are you too proud to tell him, he must have really saved Carver's sluggardly arse-" Hawke's magic made the hair's on the back of Athenril's neck stand up and she snapped her mouth shut even as the mage glared up at her with a deadly gleam in her eyes. That had been a slight overstep in regards to Hawke's moodswings."I'm losing my patience for the bullshit, Athenril. Cut the small talk."

"Fine. You interested?""I'm hungry. And I'm tired of feeling…useless. Give me something to kill or steal or just…do. The boredom alone is enough to kill me."

Athenril smiled. That hadn't been nearly as hard as she thought it was going to be.

* * *

><p>Maybe having no memory of what happened before he received his markings is as much a blessing as it is a curse. There is nothing before his markings, but this absence only serves to make every other memory afterwards so vivid he can nearly taste it. Before Hawke, there were very few of these memories that were worth the pain of recalling. She has given him…fond reminiscences.<p>

Fenris has not seen Hawke in months…longer. Nearly a year at least. But he can remember with perfect, exacting clarity the moment when she said goodbye to him before the Deep Roads. He can close his eyes and see how her dark blue ones glittered in the bright sunlight of the square, lit within with a passionate vivacity that Hawke had for every endeavour. He could smell the mint and bergamot and pure _Hawke _scent of her as she perched on tip toe to brush her lips across his cheek, her fingers light on his shoulders. Careful not to touch his markings, considerate. The soft exhalation of her sigh, her breath (Breath that was flavoured with a sweet tea the Witch had made up a flask of specifically for Hawke's journey but Hawke had, of course, been unable to wait to drink it.) as it ghosted across the tip of his pointed ear.

"_Avale, mi amicus. Ego erunt retros protore te xerare sum absentia."_ _Farewell, my friend. I will return before you know I'm gone. _Her sly smile as she pulls back from him before he can jerk away from her in his surprise at being kissed, at the thrill of heat that her bold approach had sent racing through him. In the memory, it happens more slowly: She turns, silver white hair catching the sunlight, her mabari running up to snuffle her hand as it hangs by her side, the sway of her hips in the apostate leathers, the smooth confident strides as she walks away from him…

He did not think he would be saying goodbye to her for the final time.

Varric mutters something about business in Tantervale, about lurking around the nearest warden outpost to wait for news about Carver. Fenris frowns and lets an empty bottle slip from his fingers, shaking his head and trying to think. Though he'd never admit it to anyone but himself, Fenris had liked Carver. A boy who yearned to prove himself, who just wanted to be seen as Hawke's equal in skill and renown. Carver had never realized that the only person who could give him the prestige he craved was himself.

But the dwarf lacks conviction, Isabela's honey brown gaze is always too shifty when he queries her about Hawke's whereabouts. _I don't know, Lanky. She's gone. Just wait. She'll either turn up like the bad copper she is…or she wont. _They are lies. His friends are lying to him, the two rogues at the very least. They know things, things they won't tell him. How can he trust them not to reveal his whereabouts to any passing slavers if they wont even tell him where Hawke is? If they don't even care enough to look for her, to drag her back?

It's coming up on three months since he last spoke to any of them when he stumbles out to the foyer of the mansion, ready to ford his way through to Lowtown to go forage for what food he can afford with the scant salary provided by the mercenary jobs he's been taking on, that he finds it: a basket. A basket with one bottle of aggregio and two loaves of carefully wrapped whey bread. The crust of the bread has gone hard as a rock from neglect but it's still edible. There's a thin layer of dust across the purple green glass of the bottle of aggreggio but the vintage is fine. Someone left this here for him. Someone who knows his taste and can afford a wine sold by select few merchants, all of whom can barely speak broken Common. Fenris grabbed the entire basket and stormed from the mansion, intent on confronting them all.

He refused to be babysat and placated.

* * *

><p>Aveline sits at her desk with a single dwindling lamp as the only light as she pours over her guardsmen's most recent reports. At her feet, Hawke's mabari rests his head, gazing out across an expanse of orange and gray rug with a sad look in his droopy brown eyes. There's an alarming amount about recent smuggling activity in Lowtown. And damned if it all doesn't have Athenril's signature on it. Sneaky, underhanded and nigh untraceable. Stolen goods, often times with loud public disturbances. The amount of property destruction has increased as well, in direct correlation with the thievery. Clever. Light one property on fire and with all the traffic no one will notice the other is being robbed. It's a neat trick to get a fire so hot it could do any damage to anything down on the docks, and the Lowtown shanties…well, if one goes up they all should go up. But these fires have been selective, oddly controlled. Surprisingly, there have been next to no deaths.<p>

Aveline slammed a mailed fist into her desk surface, nicking the polished wood. That means a mage. She only knows one mage who has that much control over her own pyromancy, who can be linked back to the elven smuggler. Which meant Hawke was back from Tantervale or wherever else Varric had said she'd gone to. Aveline sighed; she wanted very much to be able to get angry with Hawke. Somehow, she couldn't find it in herself to be at least righteously indignant when Hawke did something like this. Something wrong. She had a lost, insouciant quality that made every law she broke somehow justifiable and every right, decent thing she did an act akin to heroism. You couldn't really stay mad at Hawke because somehow she'd turn around and do something right by you in the end. Unless, of course, you were Anders. An odd choice of companion to bring down into the Deep Roads. But, if Varric could be believed, the only reason Carver might still be alive.

Losing Carver in the Deep Roads…Hawke had just needed someone to talk to, Aveline was sure of it. But she'd been too busy to seek her out until a few days after Anders and Varric resurfaced. She had headed to Gamlen's and had found Leandra despondently sweeping a broken vase off the step, the shattered pieces edged with blood.

"_Hello, Leandra. I was…is Hawke-"_

"_I don't know where she is. Maybe she's gone to go wait for her brother."_

Aveline shook her head and sighed….she'd go see Varric in the morning and ask again. If he didn't tell her, by the Maker she'd ring it out of him.

* * *

><p>"Why won't you mug me? Is it because I'm an elf?" The thug looks around nervously, looking for all the world like a silly little da'len caught doing something naughty. It's simple question, one Merril's been pondering for months. When she was out with Hawke and the others, why, they used to get attacked all the time!<p>

Merril, unlike Fenris and Aveline, saw Hawke right after she came back from the Deep Roads. She was so excited, so glad to see her that for a moment the lack of Carver hadn't registered; she hadn't seen. Marethari used to have a phrase for that. _You can't see the forest for the trees, Da'len. _That wasn't always true, though. Merril remembered watching the Warden Duncan come trudging back to their camp carrying only Mahariel's limp body and had immediately noted the lack of Tamlen. But, perhaps that had been different…

The square in front of Gamlen's hovel was somewhat crowded the day Hawke came back and she'd tried to call out to her as she took the steps up to Gamlen's two at a time, shooing away beggars and urchins trying to use the scant ledges and orange awnings to shield themselves from the rain and just generally impeded Hawke's progress up the stairs. Hawke had disappeared into the house before Merril could hail her. Carver must be right behind her, maybe Hawke had gotten home earlier and she'd checked in with Isabela or something and was coming back for him. So she'd waited patiently, eagerly for Hawke and her brother to re-emerge and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her gut.

The door burst open and Hawke staggered out, losing her footing and scuttling backwards as a gut wrenching shriek echoed across the square. Heads turned as Hawke scrabbled to her feet, catching a bag as it thumped into her chest. A bedroll followed, nearly sending Hawke catapulting back off the raised portico as she tripped over the human refuse littering the steps. Hawke was storming back towards the doorway, shouting incoherently when the vase-a big, heavy earthenware pot, really- smashed into the side of her face. Blood splashed across the sandy colored stone, Hawke clutching her belongings in one hand and her temple in the other as she stumbled backwards, tripping over an old beggar not fast enough to shuffle out of her way.

Merril let out a sympathetic gasp as Hawke went tumbling down the steps. She'd never known Leandra could be so…mean. Marethari had never thrown anything at her. Was that how all human mothers behaved? Merril tried to help Hawke up and was surprised when her friend stared at her with a look like a spooked halla, blood running down the scratches on one side of her face and shoving away her helping hands. Hawke staggered into one wall and held up an arm to ward off anymore help.

"_Merril! Merril…I have to tell you…something. I…" _Hawke had looked agonized, blinking away the blood in her eyes. _"You…I'm sorry."_

"_Sorry? Hawke, why did Leandra-"_

"_Wardens. Carver's joined the Wardens. He…caught the Taint. He…I have to go."_

Hawke had bolted after that, legs tangling and shoving and beating people out of her way as she limped off towards the docks. Merril hadn't seen her since, and that was over half a year ago. Varric said Tantervale, Isabela just shrugged her shoulders and heaved a sigh. Merril sniffed and shook her head, missing Hawke wasn't going to bring her back. She returned her attention to the baffled thug and spoke more clearly; maybe he hadn't heard her the first time:

"Why? Do you have something against elves? I'm starting to think you must not like me."

"I…no, miss. You've got a powerful friend is all." The man stepped back sheepishly, pulling at the back of his neck.

"I do? Wait. Did Varric tell you not to mug me?"

"It was that tattooed friend of yours."

"Tattoos? What's-" Merril stops herself before she can say 'Fenris'. "-was he an elf? Did he look…broody?"

"No, miss. It's the woman. She's working with Athenril…I forget her name…"

"Hawke? Hawke is back?!"

"That's the one!" The man gave her a big, toothless grin.

Merril thanked the man and rushed back to the alienage, waving a cheery hello to all the bandits disinclined to mug her along the way. She was going to have to head to the Hanged Man tomorrow and spread the good news. Varric and Isabela would be so excited!

* * *

><p>Without Hawke pestering him to go on her little sorties out into the world, Anders found he could relax. Heal. Write his manifesto. Justice became less of a persistent presence and more of a supportive force, carrying him through as the weeks turned into months. He slaved day and night to write the words that would one day help free mages, healed the refugees who needed his help. The sense of purpose was comforting.<p>

And boring. More boring than anything had ever been in his life.

For a while, he amused himself with thoughts of Hawke shut in with Leandra, doing menial chores or drinking with Gamlen. That had been before Merril told him what happened, though. Before Isabela and Varric started spreading their bullshit about Tantervale. Before then, he'd been determined to stay angry with Hawke. The whole way back to Kirkwall from the Deep Roads, the woman hadn't slept. She'd thrown the boiling hot bowl of stew back in his face after he offered it to her. Each time he tried to help, she'd pulled away. Varric would just sit with his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval, counseling him to 'wait, she'll come round'. She never did.

Maybe she never had. That thought worried him; baseless as it was. Hawke was lurking somewhere in Kirkwall, even Aveline knew that. The refugees would occasionally banter back and forth about a rogue apostate, someone who got things done. Would take on a difficult job, no matter how hard and ugly it got. Working with Athenril, staving off the Coterie. Hawke's signature was all over it, even if all maintained she was gone from Kirkwall at least for now. But lone Hawke…a lone apostate in general…that was a frightfully vulnerable position to be in. In large part that was the reason he'd stuck with Hawke and the others, still kept in touch with Varric: solitude was not something mages did well. It meant too much time to think, to stew. To let the demons and the spirits in just for someone to talk to…

"Blondie, you keep pacing like that you're going to wear a hole in my floorboards and piss Nora off. Again." Varric muttered, blotting the nib of his quill against a spare rag and scratching across the fine parchment, studiously scribing away.

"Don't make fun of me, Varric. Or complain about the floorboards. I need to know where Hawke is, please. If you just tell me then I can get back to functioning-" When he'd initially set out to bother Varric, he'd intended to be suave about it. Clearly, 'suave' was not something he could manage at this point in Hawke's long absence.

"Huh. Functioning. That's a good word for it, Justice come up with that one?" Varric scowled and trimmed the quill down again, swearing when he cut himself.

"That's-! Wait…are you cross with me?"

"No, Blondie. I'm just tired, alright? Besides, I don't know how many times I have to say Tanterva-" Tirelessly, the dwarf had been prevaricating for two hours now. Anders had tried everything from pleading to cajoling with little to no effect.

"There is no Warden outpost in Tantervale and Hawke isn't about to let Leandra and Gamlen out of sprinting distance. What are you afraid of-"

"For all you and Hawke bicker, you actually have more of a grasp of what she's all about than Broody. Go use your noggin, Blondie. It'll come to you-" Varric hopped off his chair and blew on the wet ink, surveying it with a sort of focus that meant he was earnestly trying to ignore Anders.

"Varric-"

"Bianca is going to put a bolt in your ass if you don't stop pestering me, Justice."

"Fine! But what do you think is going to happen when Fenris figures out that you've been lying to him-"

"Broody knows." Varric ran a palm down his face and sighed deeply. "I'm not proud but Hawke asked me for this, more or less: She needs time, Blondie. She doesn't…hmmm, you know how I gloss over Bethany's thing in the writings?""You've started working on those?" Frankly, he'd thought the dwarf had been kidding when he said he was going to detail Hawke's story in a memoir."Eh, right. Well, yes. And I do. Point is, Hawke doesn't…recover from failure well-" Waving a hand in a careless 'forget about it' gesture, Varric rolled up the scroll of parchment and stuffed it onto one of the shelves lining the walls of his suite.

"She didn't fail, Carver's fine-"

"Blondie. I know you're not dumb enough that you actually believe that. Even if he's alive, Junior'll never be 'fine' again. Hawke's not a 'hug it out' kind of person. She needs to burn some shit down and kill some people and get a little deeper into the hole before she can justify climbing back out again. Let her be. She's making progress."

That had been all he could get out of the dwarf and Isabela it was pointless to try because she'd immediately offered to divulge information for sexual favours and he just really wasn't that desperate…yet. In either respect. He even briefly considered going to Leandra but then shied away from the idea. If she'd hit Hawke…well, that didn't mean anything, really. A lot of people did that under considerably less emotional stress. Still, he was the warden who had suggested her son become a warden. To save his life, of course, but what would that matter to a distraught mother robbed of her youngest children? No, that was a disastrous plan.

Gamlen was approachable…maybe. No, definitely not. He continued to try and settle himself into the still new, Hawke-less routine; performing the same tasks day in and day out. On his brief forays out into Darktown, he tried to scout out where she might be hiding. Paid a visit to one of Athenril's safe houses, only to find it empty of anything save some large rats. His searches were fruitless and he only ever chased one shadow of a lead. Literally.

He was locking up the clinic one night when he spotted a silhouette, sitting with it's knees tucked up to it's chest. Moonlight glinted off the red robes like they were a puddle of blood. The only features not swathed in red were the bridge of the nose and the eyes. Shut, dosing. Which he would have realized had he not immediately been thrown in a panic and shouted 'HEY!' startling the figure awake. **Mage.** Justice surged in his consciousness as the figure scrambled to get away.

"Wait! Come bac-" He tripped over a basket outside his door, sidestepping it and stumbling down the stairs after the figure. The red robed mage nimbly jumped over the rough wrought iron fence, landing on the ledge that was carved into the side of the wide channel, slipping into one of the tiny narrow passages cut and cracked and burrowed into the wall. They lead to a warren of tunnels, impossible to navigate unless you knew them. He gave up an returned to his door, suddenly struck by a horrific thought: What if that had only been a distraction, meant to lead him away from his clinic so he could be robbed? Damn it!

But when he returned, there was nothing missing. In fact, there was just the basket of healing herbs and supplies that had been left for him. Tucked in amongst the greenery and bandages was a small note detailing a templar raid that was going to happen within the next week. Maybe it was a faction of the mage underground he hadn't met, then? **No, it was the HawkeMage. This act savours of her power, the other mages who fight for the cause would contact us more directly. Why she is helping us is less clear. It must be a trick.** _Or maybe she actually cares. _**Your mortal feelings mar your judgment.** Anders carried the basket inside and locked the door behind him, too tired to argue with the spirit. _She needs time. _

She could have come in, he thought. I wouldn't have minded. I mean, I would have. I would have asked her why she buggered off but still…Anders dropped the basket beside his desk and ignored the spirits insistence that he try to work on his manifesto, trudging to bed. He slept and dreamt of walking alone through a thousand twisting alleys, always following just behind the silhouette of a great bird of prey. Past broken nests, past a patch of blood spattered daisies poking up through the cobbles, a shipwreck, a wounded wolf watching from the shadows. A rusty sword, sheaves of torn parchment blowing in the wind…and a hawk in a grey sky, the gyre of it's flight winding tighter and tighter above him…twisting before it's final plunge…

* * *

><p>"Hey, Andraste. Andraste. ANDY." Hawke shook her head and gave Athenril a dirty look, stuffing her hard won vial of lyrium back into her pocket. Athenril had changed around the codes since last they smuggled together but that one was fairly universal. It meant trouble, of a mildly legal nature. It was what Athenril called her when someone was looking for her specifically.<p>

"What is it now-"

"There's a really pretty boy on the doorstep looking for information on Hawke. Rich but apparently savvy enough to get down here without being knifed and or left stripped naked in a gutter. Has a funny accent, too. You better get down there and deal with him before someone decides to slit his throat. I just had the urchins scrub the blood off the door from the last altercation, I don't need another one." Athenril muttered, making a shooing gesture at a little pick pocket in her employ who was insisting on getting paid early.

"You've got to be more specific, Athenril. I'm not just going to wander-"

"Hey Seymore-"

"It's Sebastian, actually-" She knew that voice: Sebastian Vael. Starkhaven's last true heir and scion of the Vael family, she'd done a job for him and used Varric as an intermediary when she realized he'd recognize her if she came to him herself.

"Athenril, I can't-"

"That's what I said, Stephen. This woman here is Andy, she'll help you find what you're looking for." Athenril slipped past Hawke before she could snarl at her properly and Hawke shoved her way past the slew of thieves and smugglers jostling about the hideout and preparing for their next job and out onto the doorstep.

Sebastian barely managed to step aside before she smacked into him, the door slamming behind her. Ungrateful, chicken-hearted little bunch. Not that she could blame them, really. In the slant of sunlight from the grates and slats set into the stone ceiling above them, Sebastian looked very official. If out of place and extraordinarily lucky that he wasn't dead somewhere. His blue eyes watched her with interest and recognition as she stepped off the crumbling stone steps, casually stretching and using the movement to distract from her brief assessment of any fringe dangers that might become an issue. The prince appeared to be alone and, apart from a bow and a full quiver, mostly unarmed. Good.

"You're a little dressy for Darktown, don't you think?" She began, sticking out a hand. The prince took it-surprising, not a gesture many nobles would have chanced- and shook it firmly but politely, a smile quirking at the corners of his lips.

"Aye. The outfit has some…sentimental value, I'm afraid I canna bring myself to part with it unless absolutely necessary. It's a pleasure to finally meet you…Andy. I'm hoping you can help me find Hawke. I hear conflicting information from everyone I ask. I assume it's a ruse-"

"Nothing gets past you, does it?" Sebastian's lips thinned into a frown and a bare brief glimpse of frustration sparked behind his crystalline azure eyes. "Sorry. It's been a long day on my end. Let's go for a stroll and we'll discuss Hawke, fine fellow that he is."

"So Hawke is a man? I…that…I wasn't expecting that." Hawke allowed herself a small smile as she walked along two paces ahead of the prince, forcing him to step quickly to catch up with her. The smile thinned a little as a stab of discomfort shot up her leg and she stumbled a pace and hid the limp. The pain of injuries from her last few jobs were a far more preferable form of penance to…other things.

"You heard me: Hawke's a man. Big, bearded man. Nasty red scrape across his nose. A real do-gooder. Fabulous in bed." She added the last just to see Sebastian's face redden. It was good she could still take pleasure in the small things, like Fenris smashing his bottles. _Only I smash people. _That was pleasurable in it's way, comfortable. Like the pain in her leg. It was easy.

"I…well, do you know where I could find him? If he's-" A madness seized her as they walked toward one of the few pulley and platform type apparatuses that lead back to Lowtown, their shadows shifting across the bare bit of sunbathed stone. "-still in Kirkwall-"

"He's a warden, actually. Carver Hawke. Maker knows where he is now, but they don't exactly let wardens out on holidays." Her voice broke rather inconveniently over the name 'Carver'. Sebastian Vael seemed not to notice, frowning into the alleyways they passed. No one would bother him, not with her standing beside him. Perhaps he noticed that. Hopefully, he would chalk it up as her connection with Athenril and the Undercity and not the fact that she was, in fact, the well known criminal/smuggler/mercenary he was looking for. _Funny, that. Most of the time, I'm getting paid to do something illegal. Yet people still thank me, I still get paid at the end of the day. Sweet little chantry princelings still come to me to thank me for my killing skills. _Hawke gently ran her fingers over the smoothness of the vial of lyrium in her pocket, despairing a little at how tiny it was.

"Ah, then perhaps his sibling could get a message to-"

"She's dead. Killed by darkspawn, actually. You could say that he became a warden to avenge her, even. It's a shame, she was…well, she was nice." The great fabrication seemed stupid, but it somehow helped. She could throw Bethany and Carver in his face, give them grand stories.

"I…losing ones family is always…jarring." Hawke nearly jumped out of her skin when his hand fell on her shoulder. He quickly removed it and she rubbed at the place where the palm of his glove had touched her, taking an involuntary step back. _I've forgotten how sentimental he is._

"Forgive me. It's…you seemed close to the Hawke's."

"I used to be. Before they all died and wandered off. Bit of a pity, really. What were you going to tell them?"

"I was hoping to enlist their help yet again, but it seems that will be impossible."

"Well, Athenril has some people who might-"

"I have no interest in hiring mercenaries-" His accent thickened with his displeasure and he reared back to give her that typical haughty noble glare and Hawke nearly snapped and flung him across the small alley.

"Seems to me a beggar prince cant be a chooser prince, no matter who killed his family-"

"How do you-" Insulted. The stupid noble bastard had the gracelessness to appear insulted. Sometimes, Hawke felt sure she was going soft. He deserved a good roasting, this one. _No interest in hiring mercenaries my fine, magical arse._

"I'm an information broker, not some two-bit thief. Hawke was a mercenary, lest you forget. You paid a mercenary to do a mercenary's job: fighting and killing for money. If you think I'm going to stand here after generously giving you all that information for free and walking your shiny arse out of the darkest and most dangerous streets in Kirkwall and listen to you pass judgment like you're the Maker himself think again. You'll want to take three steps back onto that platform and reel yourself out of here, Chantry. My magic isn't just for lighting candles." "I'm sor-""Go. I'm losing my patience. Besides, what would the Maker do if he caught you talking to some lowlife apostate?" She turned her back on him, fishing the vial of lyrium out of her pocket and fumbling for the cork.

Part of her realized she'd just turned her back on a man with a very fine bow, a rogue who's exemplary skill she'd seen first hand. _Dying with an arrow in my back isn't the worst way to go, probably less painful than dying of Taint. Being crushed to death and squeezed in a giant ogre's fist. Than using every last drop of mana in your body to heal someone who doesn't deserve it. Might even be kind of nice… _But no arrow came, the sound of the lift rumbling as it rose; bearing the little beacon of principled goodness up with it. Her mouth curved into a frail smile and she rolled the cool glass between her fingers, the blue substance glittering faintly in the darkness. With shaking hands that had nothing to do with fear, Hawke put the vial to her chapped lips and knocked it back. The glass tube shattered in her fist as she walked into the Darktown gloom, leaving a haphazard trail of blood in her wake_._

* * *

><p><em><em>**Author's End Note: **_I nearly forgot, I have MUSIC for this chapter! 'Right Where it Belongs' by Coma and 'Dither and Gloom' by James Harmon(which is my go to Fade song, but I found myself listening to it a lot during this chapter so I figured I'd tack it up here). Any case, all the writer to reader love! :D_**  
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	13. Dragons Are Always Slain

**Author's Note: **So this one was a hella long time coming and I apologise. I've had a rough two months or so and forgive me if the writing is subpar, I've been blocked all over the place(school writing as well which has been doubly hard). Thank you so much for the reviews so far and I'm sorry if I haven't had time to answer them! Much love and enjoy the chapter!

"_I no doubt deserved my enemies, but I don't believe I deserved my friends." _**~ Walt Whitman**

"Broody. You look like a man on a mission. What can I do for-"

"This!" The basket hit the wall and shattered apart, the bottle thunking down on the table in front of me with enough force to send my ink well spinning away cross the table. Damn it. It was starting to get impossible to have a moments peace. If it wasn't Blondie bitching, it was Broody snapping and lately Daisy'd been giving me these great big elfy eyes…still preferable to Fenris's fist wrapped around a very fine bottle of wine and squeezing it so tight it was bound to pop, expensive glass or no.

"The presents Hawke leaves you have nothing to do with me." The name Hawke stopped Broody's rant short of a tantrum and he stared at me for a moment, the glow fading off his lyrium tattoos.

"Hawke…Hawke left this?" He set the win down on the table like it was about to bite him.

"You can drink it, Broody. Go ahead. Now, if you were Blondie I probably wouldn't give you the same advice, but she's not about to poison _you_." I glanced up, setting my quill aside and immediately regretting the way I'd broken things to Fenris. He and Hawke might not talk about their feelings but that's only because if you had eyes in your head and cared to actually look with them the emotions were plain to see. Broody, for instance, looked like I'd just kicked his puppy and simultaneously told him his mother died of chokedamp. He flopped down into a chair across from me, setting the bottle on the table and scowling at it.

"She has...returned?" There was a hefty dose of resentment to Broody's sneer and I can't say I really blamed him. Had I told Hawke he(or any of them) kept asking after her? No. Was that cruel? Maybe a little, more to her then them, though.

You'd never know it with the way everyone kept snapping at Rivaini and I, but we were actually the good guys. A moody mage, especially one like Hawke, was something no one should have to see. Especially when that mage didn't want to be seen even by their own friends. Ancestors, even I hadn't seen her for at least three months. I was keeping tabs on her, sure. But the last of my contacts to 'check up' on her(A dangerous practice and something I hear they all drew lots for. Short straw gets to watch her for a week.) lost his eyebrows to a fireball. I hear other burns are still healing…nothing serious serious, but bad enough even after Blondie got through with him.

" 'Returned' isn't exactly how I would put it-" Hawke had never actually 'gone' anywhere. "-But I'm tired of keeping her hidden from the rest of you. Princess is past that griefy stage, most of the loot is coin now and Leandra's looking awfully pathetic without someone to shout at these days. Hawke's been living in Darktown."

"Darktown? What about the hovel in Lowtown-"

"Leandra…there was…" Eh, I probably wasn't going to elaborate on the circumstances of Hawke's ousting from Gamlen's shack. Broody would instantaneously assume Hawke's side and as entertaining as it would be to see the look on Leandra's face when she was accosted by six feet of angry, lyrium-infused elf, far be it from me to drive a wedge between her and what(if Hawke got her way and I got my plotline) would be her future son-in-law. So, I might just gloss over that uncomfortable detail a little. "Look, Broody. Just…that's all I know, actually-" A beige blur came barreling into the room, nearly knocking the elf over in it's excitement.

"Ohhhh, that had better be everything you know, Varric. It's nothing short of criminal, you and the Whore letting her fend for herself for this long in the state she's in. Grieving a brother and you think it's alright for her to run around Darktown like a common thug?" Muffled yipping and swearing in Arcanum

"Who's running around Darktown like a common thug? Can I come?"

"Don't you even start, Whore. I know you know things you haven't told me." Rivaini slowly pushed aside Aveline's pointing finger and grinned at the guardswoman, swaying her way into the room carelessly.

"Ohhhh so many things, Big Girl."

"You're vile-"

"Quiet, both of you." Broody snarled, slamming his fist down onto the table again and shoved Thee so hard the mabari fell back with a yelp. "Tell me where Hawke is!"

"We would, Lanky. If we actually still knew. She was running with Athenril but they could literally be anywhere-"

"How did you two allow this to happen?! Hawke-"

"Is a grown woman, Red. She can make her own decisions…granted, she doesn't always make the right decisions." So yeah, maybe I was feeling a little guilty. Hawke had been wretched after losing Carver, though, and dreadful to be around

"I…Forgive me for intruding, but did you say the name 'Hawke'?" Smack me on the ass and call me a paragon, that had better not be the Starkhaven prince I thought it was, lurking outside the door to my suite. Damn. That complicated everything…

"What do you want with her?" Blondie snapped before I could make the shut up motion in his direction. The little prince hadn't changed much since when I'd seen him last, the apparent questionable support of a dithering Viscount with his own problems notwithstanding.

"Her? I mean the mercenary, her brother…Garrett?" The little prince was fishing, didn't know what he was talking about. And if I knew Hawke, she'd sooner feed him a false story about her origins than-

"Hawke doesn't have a brother Garrett, you've got the wrong woman. Her brother's name is Carver-"

"Sweet Thing, zip your lip. Garrett! Oh you must mean her cousin Garrett, we haven't seen that one for ohhh, what was it, Varric? Three months? Two? Think he joined a traveling circus in Orlais-" Oh, Rivaini, and you were doing so well right up until then. Daisy perked up beside me, eyebrows raised so high that they scrunched her vallaslin up into her hairline.

"I didn't know Hawke had a cousin! I thought it was just her, Carver and poor Bethany-"

"Mages." Fenris spit under his breath.

Sebastian coughed lightly and Daisy's mouth snapped shut, damage done. Rivaini snorted and got up, casually placing herself between Starkhaven's last prince and the doorway. I doubt Sebastian missed the vaguely threatening gesture, but he kept his composure and bowed to us. Noble manners die hard, I suppose. He cleared his throat and straightened, a benevolent smile on his face that was more than a little creepy.

"I think I may know where to find your errant companion. She is a woman with tattoos, yes?"

"Lot's of women have tattoos, Sweet Thing. In fact, you forget all about finding our Hawke and I'll let you see mine." Chantry boy's ears went red at the suggestion shifting uncomfortably on his feet and turning his attention towards Daisy, weakest in the subterfuge chain.

"I implore you, I mean her no harm. In fact, I wished only to thank her, and perhaps seek out her help once more in regards to the circumstances surrounding my family's…untimely demise. I do believe I have, unwittingly, already located her. At least, where she was three months prior to the present."

"Look here, Prince. Try to see things from our point of view: In walks the chantry golden boy and jut sort of asks to meet their very private friend who really doesn't like the chantry let alone trust them. What do you thinks going to happen to that chantry boy if his intentions aren't pure?"

"You'll give him to the swashbuckling Rivani Captain to do with as she…pleases?" I was tempted to let Vael squirm for a little longer under Rivaini's seductive influence, but decided against it. The men folk were looking glowy and besides, all this 'where in Thedas is Streyga Hawke' business was making me a little edgy. Rogues…well, we intuitively know things. A sixth sense, if you will. Ancestors, my alarm bells were going off, the kind of alarm bells that say 'DANGER, YOUR PROTAGONIST HAS GONE ROGUE'. In any case, I cleared my throat and raised up my gloved hands.

"Reel it in, Rivaini. Look, Choirboy-"

"Sebastian, actually-"

"That's what I said; now pay attention: We don't know where she is, you might. In fact, you're the one who's seen her most recently-"

"Varric, what if this man is a templar-"

"That would only matter if Sweet Thing was a mage, and since she isn't it doesn't matter, does it?" Blondie's eyes crossed and he made a very squeaky noise, Rivaini leaning over him with intent. Leave it to Isabela to actually 'have a man by his balls' under the table.

"I will not out her to the Templars, so long as her magic remains benign and is used only in the service and for the betterment of his holiness the Maker." Sebastian raised his hands in a gesture of supplication, widening his baby blues and trying to look as innocuous and helpless as possible. If I didn't know better, I might have been taken in. Maybe if I was a human…say the word 'Maker' around them and they all melted into a puddle of fuzzy feelings. Unless they were people of sense, then they knew better. People do evil things when they think that a god's going to reward them for it. I could see Red softening towards the prince, Daisy starting to smile and Broody's fists beginning to unclench. Blondie, however, was not so easily fooled.

"That's exactly what I would say if I were a templar hunter in disguise." I dare say Princess would be impressed by the sheer show of possessiveness if nothing else. Anders stood up, flats of his palms slamming down on the table. A few sparks were starting to jump between his fingers. The prince made a halfhearted gesture towards his quiver, instead letting his hands drop to a hidden dagger at his belt. He tried to use that and I'd shoot first and apologise to Hawke for killing her pretty boy later.

"If I were a templar hunter, I assure you that Hawke would already be in my custody-" Broody's markings flared right up and he bolted to his feet. Ah, no. They better not starting tearing each other apart here…I'd just had the carpet cleaned…

"Clearly you don't know her. If you attacked Hawke on your own, you'd be a smear in some gore-spattered alley of Darktown. Single templars are always so willing to believe that the Maker is with them, that mages are weak. We're not. We could kill the lot of you if we put our minds to it-"

"Quiet, Abomination. You give yourself and the rest of us away. This man cannot be allowed to leave-"

"Boys, boys. Why don't we just whip them out and measure? Can we please have this pissing contest after we've found Sweet Thing? Please?" There was something like real concern in Rivaini's tone, the lantern light glinting on her stud as her bottom lip jutted out, the closest she could come to a concerned pout. Red pushed off from where she was leaning against the wall, folding her arms with a clank.

"For once, the Whore and I agree on something. This man-"

"Sebastian." The prince interjected politely, steadfastly meeting Aveline's disapproving glare. The only indication that he might be inwardly pissing his trousers was the way he swallowed.

"-has a better idea where Hawke might be than the rest of us, I say he leads us to where he last saw Hawke." There was a big distinction there that maybe only we rogues noticed: 'leads us to' was a very active phrasing and it wasn't anywhere near as nice sounding as 'we follow him to'. Reading between the lines, it was Aveline's way of saying 'Take us there…or else'. Graciously for a Prince who'd just been threatened, Choir Boy dipped into a polite bow.

"I would be happy to, my Lady. I owe it to Hawke-"

"You do. Now tell us where." Good old Red, storming determinedly ahead despite the pretty boy prince standing between her and whooping Hawke's unruly ass.

"Fine," Sebastian sighed, jaw tight with strain. Yeah, Prince was pissy. Can't say I blamed him. "Last I saw her, she was with the smuggler Athenril-"

Ah, nugshit.

"Well, that's bloody brilliant. You don't think we knew that?" Blondie snarled, throwing up his hands in frustration, seconds from pelting a bolt of ice across the table.

"Flames! That information is useless to us, Athenril could be anywhere." Red rumbled through gritted teeth, flushing the same colour as her hair. It was Rivaini who came to the reluctant rescue, looking as guilty as her manifold bad habits and pleasures.

"I…actually have better idea than most of where she'd be."

"Well, that's just lovely. Thank you so much for speaking up so early in the conversation, Isabela."

"Keep your trousers on, Big Girl. No, really. Keep them on, much as I'd like to see if the curtains match the carpet-" I was starting to realise that Hawke served a very important function: She kept the natives from tearing each other apart because she always took center stage. Hawke didn't wait around for conflict to come to her, she ran out to meet it. Hawke could placate anyone of them, either by diffusing their anger issues or by simply not being there when they got bent out of shape. She kept the balance; the only one she'd go head to head with was Blondie. But Ancestors, they were really starting to grate on my nerves.

"You will keep a civil tongue in your head or I will-"

"Oh shut it. Anyway, you can't come. Sit here and babysit the prince boy while the unsavory adults go get Hawke."

"I can go where I like-"

"You're _Guard Captain_. If you think Athenril's going to let you with in two leagues of her or anyone associated with her without vanishing faster than clothes off the back of an Antivan sailor on shore-leave then you're thicker than I thought." At this point, I let Bianca come between the two women.

"I know how excited we are to run in and save Princess, but let's try and save the violence for the people who deserve it, alright? Red-"

"Fine! I'll stay here! But if you don't come back with Hawke-"

"You're holding a sortie into Darktown with the Guards of Good tramping along behind you, we get it. Don't forget to bring your friends the Templars." Anders shot the Prince a menacing glare, grabbing his staff from beside the door. Daisy hopped up, straightening her robes and beaming. Broody stood and glowered blackly at the back of Rivaini's head. I gave Aveline my best apologetic look.

"You get antsy, Red, you can meet us at the Clinic. In the meantime, if you're not willing to take my word for it, you can look up Choir Boy's papers. We'll be back before you know it." _Hopefully with Princess in toe…Ancestor's help her._

* * *

><p>After what Fenris felt was a suspiciously little amount of time, almost as if she had been awaiting Isabela's summons, Athenril met them at the juncture between two of dark towns twisting alleyways, arms folded over her pigeon like chest and a smarmy smile on her face. Her woven leather armor was new, with pieces of gilt here and there along it's straps. Fine. Expensive. People who worked around Hawke had a way of coming up with coin fast. Especially slippery, untrustworthy people like this woman. Fenris felt his fists clench; he didn't know what it was, but he'd never liked the smuggler. He liked her even less when she smiled...like a fox who'd just slipped the trap. Beside him, Isabela pursed her lips and let out a low whistle.<p>

"So this is where it is…I had a feeling."

"Where what is? Where's Hawke?"

"Shush, Lanky. Not so loud." Isabela patted his gauntlet soothingly, craning her neck to see around Athenril. The elf leaned to block her line of sight, a challenging smirk on her lips.

"Oh, it's around here alright. Though you'd be hard-pressed to find it without my help." Athenril stretched from her spine to her tip toes, luxuriously as a cat.

Fenris barely managed to resist the urge to grab the smuggler and slam her against something repeatedly until she divulged Hawke's whereabouts. Luckily, the woman turned her stretch into a reach, grasping a lever disguised as a torch holder and giving it a hard pull. They made their way along a narrow, dusty smelling corridor; the muffled sounds of the foundaries above mixing with a dull buzz. As they made their way to the end of the passage, Fenris realized what it was he was hearing.

A large cavern, roughly rectangular, had been set up like an arena. A fighting pit. Shady looking figures(clearly members of Athenril's smuggling operation) were taking coin at the doors but parted to allow them through. He had suspected it was something like this when Athenril had refused to allow Aveline to come along, a trade that broke a thousand city ordinances but was going to exist regardless of the laws forbidding it. They picked their way across the sandy stone floor towards the makeshift stands, following the sultry master smuggler as she expertly navigated the crowd. Fenris turned his attention to the arena:

Two opponents faced off in the middle of the makeshift arena, a large, burly warrior and a masked, sexless figure dressed in bloodred silks. A matching cowl was pulled up over the second figures head, a mask covering the lower half of their face. If he had to guess, he'd hazard that the red-clad figure was a rogue. Athenril leaned out over the railing with a casual sort of smirk on her lips, beckoning them over. Seemingly from nowhere in her tight fitting leathers, the elven woman produced a pomegranate; slicing it in half with a dagger and offering it to him.

"No." He snapped, shifting away from her and shaking his head in disgust. Athenril shrugged and chucked the pomegranate to Isabela who caught it easily and began divesting it of it's seeds with easy relish. In the ring below them, the two fighters began to circle one another.

"_Thrakena_! _THRAKENA_!" Fenris gritted his teeth when he heard the Tevinter accent start chanting and searched for it's source: A merchant, set about three rows above him and to his right.

"What's he saying, Broody?" Varric asked, eyes fixed on the two combatants.

"Dragon." As he said it, the Abomination felt the need to answer as well and give a double echo to the word.

"Woman, you said we would find Hawke here, I do not see her."

"You've seen her a few times, actually. She's standing right there." Athenril made a dismissive gesture towards the arena. Anders swore and suddenly rushed to the railing as the sexless figure in red made a sharp sweep with one foot and beckoned to the monster across from them. Hawke! Hawke was the man's competitor.

"Is she insane?! She'll be killed! And she can't use magic down here-"

"She hasn't died yet. Hasn't even been knocked down. It's not a fight to the death, anyway. Just to make some coin." Athenril smiled and reclined back against Isabela's knees with the easy grace of a cat, her bright green eyes slits of pleasure as Isabela began massaging the elven smugglers birdlike shoulders with soft, languorous movements.

Fenris growled and turned back to where Hawke and her opponent were circling like wolves in a cage. Waiting for something…for a signal. _Sanguina Ludacarus. _The Games of Blood in miniature. It was an old Tevinter tradition, one still present and legal in the Imperium now but a million times more lavish than this. Still, the similarities were unmistakable. _Kirkwall's nobles may take after Orlais, but the Tevinter's never left Lowtown. _Aveline had once said, glowering at her increasingly violent reports. Varric was frowning but carefully leveled himself onto one of the benches. The Witch perched herself beside him, crossing her legs at the ankle and sitting with an heir of prim, perfect naivety that only a true Dalish could achieve.

"Is that really Haw-"

"-Don't say her name, Daisy."

"-Oh, sorry! Is that really _her _down there? What's she been doing here all this time…and who's that angry gentleman across from her? Is he-"

"They're going to fight, Kitten. It's like a game."

"A game that makes some people very rich." Athenril added in an unctuous tone, giving the little Dalish wench a lascivious once over. Merril didn't seem to notice, a frown on her petite face. Something flickered in the honey depths of Isabela's eyes and he saw the woman's fingers twitch, a little something stiffen in the quirk of her lips.

"I don't think 'dragon' is the best name for her." The witch murmured anxiously, wringing her hands.

"It's one that fits, that's for sure. I've never seen another mage fling around so much fire and not end up burned to death." Athenril snorted, crossing her legs and bouncing one foot impatiently up and down.

"I suppose. But Marethari told me something about dragons once. They never die a natural death, she said. They live long, violent lives and die with a blade in their breast. Dragons are always slain." Fenris pondered that for a moment and clenched his fists, the spiky tips of his gauntlets digging into his palms until they drew blood. _Dragons are always slain, wolves are forever hunted._ The damanable Abomination shifted anxiously beside him, squinting at Hawke.

"Merril has a point. She's probably in no condition to fight."

"She's been annihilating everyone we throw at her. Been flying off the handle lately, though. Just outright killing anyone who loses to fast. More trouble than she's worth. People pay for violence, a little blood. Most of them don't have the stomach for an grisly execution, though-"

"Quiet, woman." Fenris snarled, fury and anxiety lashing in his breast. Her cold, businesslike approach to Hawke and the destruction she was capable of was far too reminiscent of how Hadriana had spoken of himself once upon a time. Athenril continued undeterred, twisting a lock of her ginger red hair around one forefinger absently.

"Hawke's a one trick mage, that's for sure. But her battle magic is the gift that keeps on giving-" Even the Abomination appeared to be getting annoyed with the smuggler, his upper lip curling in distaste.

"We get the picture, Sweet Thing. When's this going to start, anyway?"

"Bell-" As she spoke, a bell sounded. It was followed swiftly by an explosion of movement in the ring.

* * *

><p>Hawke sucked in a few deep breaths through her mask, tasting the coating of sand and dust on her tongue and wishing she could spit. The big, beefy warrior standing across from her rubbed his axe blades against the hard metal of his shield. Hawke let out a breath through her nose and scrunched her eyes shut. She'd taken too much lyrium before this match, the buzz was making her tremble. It was making her see things. <em>A big, fat, balding man with an orange beard. That's what he looks like. It's not Carver, Bother could never get the hang of using an axe, you know that. Focus, Hawke.<em>

Fighting would help, it always helped. The man came running at her and she sidestepped neatly, buffeting him with a touch of force. Her magic was feeling a bit wild, a bit uncontrollable with the combination of lyrium and sleep deprivation. But here, in Darktown, she could use it and not worry about templars. The place was well guarded, the denizens used to apostates. Just to revel in it, Hawke let loose a little flourish of fire, dancing back across the sand with swift, lyrium touched steps. Freedom, sweet and singing in her veins…

And she deserved none of it.

The man came at her again and Hawke stepped into the blow and buried a force magic fueled punch into Carver's stomach- Hawke reeled back and staggered in sand that looked like grass, a cheering that was coming from nowhere in the empty meadow behind the cabin in Lothering. The flat of the shield slammed into her chest and sent her somersaulting backwards, the breath knocked from her lungs. Bethany was laughing somewhere in the distance, the sun was in her eyes and her father reached out a hand, smiling and squinting against the light as it gleamed off the point of the shield. Hawke rolled as the point buried itself in the sand where she had been a second before. The man pivoted on his heel, setting himself off balance and preparing an ill-conceived blow with his axe and shield at the same time. The flat of the blade and the wide expanse of dented metal gave her purchase for the force magic as she rolled to her knees she threw up a hand, not even bothering to hide the magic as she sent him catapulting backwards, spinning away like a skipping stone.

Hawke recovered her feet and grabbed her staff-just a plain, wooden staff-and charged her off balance opponent, smashing the stave into the man's ribcage again and again. Athenril didn't like it when she killed them, but since when did she ever follow Athenril's orders? Her foe was retreating across the sandy ring, a wild look in his eyes and blood running from his mouth and nose. "_A time comes when you must stop running, when you must turn and face the tiger." _Fenris, how she missed Fenris and his little nuggets of Qunari and Tevinter wisdom. He would have put this useless excuse for a warrior to the sword in the bare space between two breaths.

This man barely deserved to live with how pathetically he was limping away from her. Low guard. Sloppy. Even mages had more fight in them than this. Hawke let forth a shriek and swung her staff at his face, recklessly confident. The axe sliced clean through it and threw her off balance. _Fire_, Hawke clung to that thought, let the magic ripple through her core and released it in a short burst of flame that sent the man staggering backwards, was hot enough to turn the iron of his shield orange in places.

"_Thrakena_!" Past the chanting, Hawke thought she could hear Athenril screaming 'don't you dare!' but that was probably her imagination. Athenril could go bugger herself; Hawke loved the killing. Hawke came here for the killing. It was what she was good at: carnage. So good in fact she killed her family members on accident. It made slaughtering a complete stranger for no other reason then entertainment easy. She plucked the tar bomb from her hip pouch and pitched it at the man's feet.

It shattered and coated him in black and brown grime, fixing him in place. She never used to burn them like this…it was slow, painful. Their flesh blistered and cracked and melted as it fed off the tar…flesh didn't burn well, anyway. But tar was worse. Smoked less than burning a body, though. Pyres…they lit well, burned for longer. Stung the eyes and pricked them with tears. Leandra and Carver and even Aveline had wanted to build a cairn for Wesley and Bethany…but there wasn't time. Besides a cairn forced you to remember…and memories hurt. Stained every agony in vivid shades indelibly on the fabric of the mind.

Hawke gathered flame to both hands as the cheering increased. Magic, power in pure and tangible form and at her own whim. It rippled between her outstretched hands, live orange and ruby light and heat as fierce as the sun. Fire was all about consumption, it begged to be fed. It needed something it had none of. It wanted, lusted, grew, destroyed and scoured. Sometimes, it even cleansed, purified. Burned away everything…weakness and sickness and fear. It could even burn away death…

The man's eyes widened-_suddenly Carver was a little boy, looking up at her and covered in mud and giggling_-Hawke threw the fireball before it could burn her, igniting the tar. The man screamed in agony-_Carver crying as teeny little Bethany healed his burned hand, burned by Hawke's magic as she tried to get him to stop throwing fistfuls of mud at her_. "_I didn't mean to, it was an accident. I would never hurt anyone on purpose, father-" _Hawke bent and picked up the broken haft of her staff, chucked it with a force magic enhanced toss back at the screaming, flailing figure and caught it through the throat. _Magic is dangerous, Streyga. You will always be a danger to those around you if you do not learn to control it. _A lie. Control did not make magic any less dangerous. It was the minds of men that made magic treacherous. It was all these people, baying for blood, that made magic what it was. The rush and the thrill and the savage joy of killing. That and a bad hand dealt by a cruel Maker who had given her, out of all her sweet and strong and _good _family members, undeserved luck.

Hawke strode away from the dying man, lifting her flame laced arms in the air in exultation. A crowd cheering for her was a thousand times more important than the approval of Leandra. Magic was her weapon, magic was her curse. Magic was her, all the aggression and rage and power and danger. It was purpose. Hawke tipped her head back and sucked in a sharp breath of blood and ash and burning flesh, ready for the next victim.

* * *

><p>Fenris watched Hawke's every move, mesmerized. Hawke did not fight like your typical mage, she did not stand in place(the trait that so often got many unprotected mages killed). She wove past blows, shifted, stepped around attacks and into the opponents space. Got recklessly close to deliver deadly strikes. Even her magic was different; mages in Tevinter used flourishes and flashy blows because they could afford them, magic was about prestige there. Circle mages, panicked and poorly trained, would almost always use distance attacks that would miss. Hawke did neither, she fought like a true apostate: Savage, swift, decisive. A flow of fire that matched her steps and kept her opponents from crowding any closer than she wanted them to be. There was an intimacy to her style that neither the Abomination nor the Witch exhibited, she used magic like a rogue used knives: Close, personal, deadly.<p>

There were fights like this held in Tevinter, blood sports. In large, circular stadiums that could seat a thousand or more. It sounded like barbarism, yes, but in Fenris's mind it had always been the one thing he respected about Tevinter culture. Slaves were no longer slaves in that arena, they had a choice. _Na via lerno victoria. _To live or die by their own power. A slave could be something more in that arena. _A slave…or a mage._ He might constantly ignore Anders's selfish supposition that mages were slaves(they certainly weren't in his experiences in Tevinter) but he could see the limitations: Hawke could never share her magic with any but those closest with her. Her friends or her enemies. Hawke could _be _here; a powerful mage unleashed.

"_Thrakena! Thrakena! Thrakena_!" _Dragon_. Challenge danced in Hawke's eyes, her every movement a controlled, sharp strike. Moving to the rhythm of her own flames, just like a dragon as it's head swayed before it struck out. There was beauty to it, poetry to her lithe, supple movements. A glory she took in the killing, the decisive win. He could share that…it was the feeling he got right before punching his fist through someone's chest and crushing their beating heart-

"She's sick." Anders's needly little voice broke the spell of Hawke's hypnotizing dance of fire, blood and victory. Fenris glanced at him and his lips twisted into a snarl at the disapproving look on the mages face. Of course he wouldn't be able to appreciate this form of freedom, this form of escape. For all the mage spoke of revolution he was forever chained, body and soul and mind, to his silly cause.

"Be quiet, Abomination-"

"No, don't tell me to be quiet! She…she's not well, Fenris. No one who is well behaves like Hawke does-" This was like the last time someone had insisted he wasn't actually 'free' of the magisters. Of course he was free!

"I told you to _be quiet_-" The cheering had stopped. There was a strange, dissonant kind of unsettled quiet that was permeating the crowd.

"Girls, girls. You're both pretty." Isabela interrupted distractedly, her head tilted to the side was if listening for something.

"Why does everything have to be turned into a jo-"

"Blondie, shut up. Something's wrong." Fenris rose to his feet, reaching for his sword. The dwarf was right, the crowd was starting to stand and some of the quicker of them were starting to flee. Fenris turned his gaze back to the arena and his breath caught.

"Slavers!"

"Templars!"

"Well, which is it?"

"Both." Athenril scrambled to her feet. "Damn it! I thought I'd run them off…"

Before he really knew what he was doing, Fenris had the other elf by the throat. Athenril made an unattractive choking sound as her hands flew to her throat, trying to loosen his iron grip on her windpipe. Her desperate attempts to squirm out of his grasp just made him angrier, so angry that he barely noticed Isabela's blade against his throat.

"YOU KNEW THERE WERE SLAVERS AND YOU STILL PUT HER IN THAT RING!?"

"I…ah! I didn't think they'd come back! We're old friends-" Old friends with slavers?!

"Fasta vas!" He flung her away from him violently, whirling just in time to see Hawke fall to her knees.

* * *

><p>Hawke squinted through the blood at her next set of opponents. That was…that was a lot, actually. Good. Was Athenril insane? Three rogues, two warriors, two mages. Hawke planted her feet in the sand and picked up a shattered stave, sucking in steady gasps of air. The men and women looked oddly organized, walking with easy confidence across the sand and wearing standard light armour. Hawke wiped the sweat out of her eyes and looked again. Masked, all of them. <em>Not just any masks: Masks of the Imperium.<em>

"You know, some people think dragons is clever. I'd say they'd be a right sight more clever if they knew when they was beat. So come along quiet like and we won't hurt you. It cost us a pretty penny to buy off the Templars-" _Slavers_. "-but the Tevinters like their pets exotic and dangerous-"

Hawke laughed. This seemed to surprise the slavers almost as much as it surprised her. She'd been expecting this for months, though not quite in this way. She'd been patiently waiting for a knife to the kidney, a slit throat while slumming it in Darktown. A misstep in this damnable fighting ring that Athenril had set up. Maybe those idiots in the Gallows to finally catch on. Maker, even a bad dose of chokedamp that suffocated her one day as she traversed the darkest tunnels alone. The slavers come to catch her was a relief, proof that there was a Maker, that vengeance wasn't just an entity bouncing around in Anders's skull. There was a rhythm, a rightness to the world, that bad things would surely come to bad people. A black and white, childish kind of faith in fate. Hawke felt heady with dizziness, sucking in a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Without a bladed staff, exhausted from her past matches, she didn't have a shadow of a chance. Good. Finally. Her undeserved luck had run out at last.

_But I'll go out with a bang, for old time's sake._

She had a smoke bomb left…something Isabela had given her after she left the Hanged Man for good. _In case you get into a tight scrap, Sweet Thing. _But they would see her reach for it. She'd have to-the magic she'd been gathering was struck from her grasp and she felt her heart slam against her ribcage like someone had tried to punch it out of her with a sledgehammer. She clawed at her chest and gasped with the driving pain of it, there was only one thing that felt like that in all Thedas. She stumbled, turning to see three plainly clothed men on her flank. Holy smite. A templar skill.

Her knees folded underneath her and she pooled in the sand, their cruel smiles swimming in her gaze. _No less than I deserve, is it? _Her heart was skipping beats, fluttering brokenly. She couldn't seem to get her legs underneath her, her brain wasn't working properly. _Spirit damage. _She set her teeth in a snarl and clutched the magic again, the fire flaring to life in her fist as she sent a wild lash of it at the approaching slavers. One of their mages dispelled it with a casual wave of his arm. Smoke bomb…grab the smoke bomb. Her fingers were numb as she fumbled for the-The second holy smite made her back arch with agony and her heart made a heavy _tha-thump-thud _in her chest, beats shuddering weakly as she curled in on herself tears of pain streaming down her cheeks. A third would surely kill her, jar her heart into an improper rhythm and that would be the end…

"STREYGA!" Someone was calling to her…her first name? No one knew her here…a blaze of blue past her vision, tumult, chaos. Fighting all around her as she struggled to stand. Who was brave enough to fight against seven slavers and three templars just for her?

A chill fade wind rippled over her skin and the bittersweet tang of lyrium at the edge of her smite dulled senses. Fenris…but Justice, too. Hawke rolled on her belly and tried not to vomit. Their was a sense of _wrongness _that came with the spirit's possession, even if the sight of it was something incredible to behold. Lips curled in a savage snarl, blue light rippling like veins of fire over Anders's skin, no more than a vehicle for the spirit trapped within. _Power, lot's of power. _It would have been a lie to say some part of her didn't want that power, to not be rendered obsolete at the slightest Templar's whim. _Lashed and chained and twisting with rage but glorious all the same._ The sense of corrupt wrongness that Abomination's carried with them was lessened by spirit and man united in common purpose and the magic…Maker, it sang to her a thousand times stronger than lyrium. It thrilled her, like the taste of warm blood and sweat after a fight, sent something wild and savage shooting through her soul…

"**YOU WILL NOT TAKE ANOTHER MAGE.**"He stood between her and the templars and Hawke felt the aftershock of another smite that did _nothing _against the fury of Vengeance. At most, Anders head snapped back and his fists clenched, but he rebounded more determined than before. The closest Templars eyes popped wide with horror but there was no time for him to scream as Justice buried the bladed end of the staff in the man's skull and ripped it free again with an explosion of blood and brains.

A slaver was sneaking up behind him, knives gleaming in the pallid blue Fade fire. Hawke gritted her teeth and summoned the her last shred of mana, gaining power from Justice's mere presence in a way she hadn't thought was possible. She reached up, one hand an awkward claw and thought, strained with every fiber of her mind _pull to me_. The man let out an ungainly shriek as he lost his footing and slammed into her, terrified and uncoordinated. Hawke wrenched her dagger from her belt and plunged it through the man's throat, feeling the sweet song of power that beat in blood, in pulse, in rhythm and life force and-Hawke's eyes flew open and she wrenched back on her magic, narrowing her connection to the Fade.

The spirit turned and it's eyes fell on her, bottomless blue pits of fire and Vengeance. **HawkeDemon**. Then Isabela was there, pulling at her taxed muscles, trying to force her up. Justice turned from her and stormed back into the fray, the moment over. Hawke lay her head against her arm, too tired to hear the other woman's shouts.

* * *

><p>"Come on, Sweet Thing. Up, let's get you up." Isabela struggled to lift Hawke to her feet. The other woman's body was curled in on itself, muscles trembling and tense as a frightened child's. Face to face with Justice and three templars, Isabela couldn't say she blamed her. That and Hawke was covered in blood from the dead slaver lying beneath her…if it even was Hawke. <em>She was never this thin before…and usually quicker on the draw<em>. Hawke bolted unsteadily to her feet, clutching at her chest, her wide eyes visible over the top of her mask. "Hawke?"

"Fine! Just…templar trick. We need to…get out of here. Someone…Justice…" Hot blood splattered Isabela's front as Fenris phased through an unfortunate slaver, bloodlust and fury wild in his eyes. Even with the elf tearing through opponents left and right, they were outnumbered and outclassed.

"Just so." Isabela pulled two small clay shells out from a pouch on her hip, rolling them between her fingers and eyeing the battle field. _Chameleon's breath. One here, one there…that should do it. _"ANDERS! Get it under control and let's go!"

"**NO. I AM NOT FINISHED." **Hawke took two faltering steps in the spirits direction before Isabela could grab her. One of the slaver rogues darted between them, clutching two smoke bombs in their fist. Thinking fast, the Rivaini pirate grabbed the man's wrist and ripped them out of his hand before he could toss them, pulling the him off balance in the process. The man slammed back into the dirt and Isabela stomped hard on his neck and felt the bones give under the force of the blow. It was inelegant, but it'd do.

"Merril!" Hawke raised her arm, the tiniest burst of bare force escaping her. Isabela took a running leap and somersaulted to her feet, burying her daggers into the back of a warrior who was menacing the little dalish elf; turning just in time for Hawke's body to fall into her arms, limp and unconscious. These were not the fights she usually signed on for. "Oh, Sweet Thing, you owe me big for this."

"Daisy's down!" Justice stormed by like some glowing blue beacon of rage, guiding Anders's arms in a complicated gesture in the tiny elf's direction. Merril's body levitated off the ground as if raised by invisible hands. Varric shot her a wild eyed looked and backed towards them. "Blondie, Broody! Let's go!"

"Give her to me, you cannot fight and carry her at the same time." Fenris was there, his lips pulled down in a grim line as he held out his hands for Hawke. Merril came limping toward them, Justice covering her flank.

"I'm not really sure what happened-"

"Less talking, Wench. Make us disappear." Fenris scooped up Hawke like she was a kitten, hissing with pain. Behind him, Anders clutched his temples and stumbled back arching as he regained control of his own faculties.

"We should go before the templars-"

"No shit, Blondie. Now, grab my hand."

Isabela flung down the smoke bombs and they burst, gray smog enveloping them.


	14. It's Not You, It's Me

**Author's Note:** A double update! Happy Thanksgiving everyone! 3 Have some Fenris and Anders love! Be warned, in this chapter, Fenris has some little flashbacks to some original characters I created for another story of mine called Into the Fire(it's a teeny Fenris fic that is currently on a semi permanent hold, based more around the slaves of Minrathous then Fen himself and takes place prior to Fenris's escape). Don't worry, though. You needn't have read ItF to enjoy/get the references! It's more of an interesting side note. Enjoy! :D

"_Let them think what they like, but I didn't mean to drown myself. I meant to swim until I sank-but that's not the same thing." _**~ Joseph Conrad**

Mages. They were such frail things. Before now, Fenris had never really cared…if he failed and Danarius died…that had been that. This was another matter entirely. Hawke's head lolled against his shoulder, her slight frame limp as a boned fish in his arms. Her lips had a blue tinge to them that terrified him. He was no healer but she did not look good. _Van hedis_. The Abomination hurried along beside him, pinching one of her slender wrists between his thumb and fingers and pressing as they hurried along the narrow allies, Isabela, Merril and Varric in tow.

"Come on, let's get her to the Clinic. Quickly." Anders muttered, dropping her wrist and taking a point position.

"What does that mean, mage? If she is injured than you should heal her now-"

"Broody," Varric interrupted him, gently setting a hand on his elbow. "If Blondie thought she was in any immediate danger, that's what he'd be doing."

Fenris grunted his assent and adjusted his grip on Hawke as he trotted after Anders, frowning at how light she felt. The last time he'd carried a body like this, female and small and fragile, it had been dead. There was normally a heaviness to the dead that the living did not share…but Abelina had been an exception. _She was an elf, it was different_. _Not so different, though. A mage. _Her heart had been so delicate, like a little songbird's beating a frantic rhythm against his palm and fingers as they crushed it forever. Her small hand as it slid down his cheek, trailing sticky blood across his neck before it fell in the ash. Long lashes against deathly pale, vallaslin traced cheeks. The broken stillness-

"…enris? Fenris! Here, set her down." Anders was staring at him like he'd lost his mind, briskly gesturing to the raised wooden table. They were standing in the Clinic…Aveline was there, a stark expression on her face. Fenris slowly lowered Hawke onto the table, staring at the hand he still clutched and swallowing hard.

"What…what is wrong with her?" His mouth was dry…a stupid reaction. He could see the rise and fall of Hawke's chest under the bloody red fabric of her tunic.

"Nothing. Her body is recuperating from the Smiting." The healer muttered, pinching and prodding at Hawke's immobile form.

"I feel there's a joke that could be made here by capitalizing on the word 'smite'-" A sultry sigh issued from behind him, the buxom pirate slinking up to lean against the table. The image of the dark haired woman flickered with ancient memories he'd rather have forgotten, another woman at another time with the same saucy tongue and blithe replies. _Desmiane_. Dead eyes staring sightless into the night sky, stars reflecting off a pool of black blood, a last spiteful smile frozen on blood flecked lips…

Fenris turned and stormed away across the Clinic, heading for the doors as swiftly as he could. He threw them open violently and stumbled to the railing that overlooked another sewage encrusted alley, vomiting up the contents of his stomach. It wasn't too bad…mostly wine and bad ale that soured his tongue on it's way back out. Muffled voices echoed from the Clinic behind him…the Abomination ordering them all out. Part of him wanted to know what for, another part of him knew that he could take no more exposure to Hawke lying deathly still on that table.

"Fenris-" Aveline. Damn the woman for her meddling…damn all of them. The only one who didn't ask for every sordid detail of his past was Hawke. _I should have sought her out sooner, instead of wallow in my own self-pity. She would not have left me to stew in my own misery had she been hale and whole. Van hedis, I am still a fool. _Fenris moved away from the mailed hand as it reached out to touch his shoulder, taking a care that the movement did not look like the flinch it was.

"Leave me. It is nothing." The door to the Clinic snapped shut behind the dwarf and Fenris moved to a scant patch of moonlight, resting his hands on the cold iron railing and sucking in desperate breaths of fresh air. It was tainted with sea salt and burned his lungs, did nothing to rid him of the taste of bile on his tongue. All it did was reinforce the grim, black memories of Minrathous; of Danarius and Hadriana and the harsh crack of a whip. The distant gaze of slaves, corralled like cattle. The burn as Danarius manipulated the markings, the red hot knife pain that laced his every nerve with unrelenting agony.

The iron bar bent in his grip, rust flakes spiraling away on the wind as he sucked in a hard won breath. They tinged the briny air with the bleak flavour of blood.

* * *

><p>"…Anders…"<p>

Anders set aside the concoction he'd been preparing, relieved and a little disappointed that the mix would be of no use now that Hawke had woken on her own. If she hadn't, he'd been ready to stuff some spindleweed and embrium up her nose. It would have had the desired effect of rousing her, but it was a cure that tended to burn a bit and she no doubt would have wreaked her revenge upon him somehow…though not before he'd had a chance to cause her a little deserved discomfort. Pity, really.

"Third times the charm. I was half expecting you to say 'Varric' or something. Maybe 'Aveline'." Aveline was going to throttle Hawke at the first opportunity, even if there was no way the Guardswoman could prove that Hawke was involved in the various arson-related robbings. Hawke pushed herself up to her elbows and hissed with pain, gripping her chest.

"Go easy, Hawke. Your friends the templars really pack a punch with all those skills of their's, don't they? How do you feel?" Like the Veil swallowed her and the Void spit her back out, no doubt. Smite was not a skill that was meant to be used lightly, nor in such quick succession. It's effects were severely damaging to a mage of any rank, had been known to kill the weaker ones outright. These incidences, when they occurred within the Circle, were always labeled as 'unfortunate accidents'. Every mage in their right mind knew better than to believe that excuse, though.

However, The templars who had attacked her and the rest of them in that arena had not been actual, practicing, sanctioned templars but the lyrium addicts the Chantry no longer had a use or a place for; instead renting out their services to slavers in exchange for pinches of the Dust. It was a shame to kill them so quickly, really, but the situation had demanded it.

"I'm…I'll live…I think. Just feel like I've been kicked by a bronto right in the…" Hawke winced and slid back down into a supine position, the blood draining from her face. "…Ow…"

"Chest. A Holy Smite stresses a mage's heart. Stops it for a few seconds, actually. You're lucky-" Hawke suddenly lunged upwards, grabbing for his wrist as her other hand fisted in the feathers of his pauldrons and she stared at him with wild eyed panic.

"Oh Maker, I-! Merril, is Merril alright!? I saw-"

"She's fine. Thanks to Justice. She also had a little help from her demon…believe me, it was hard to convince him that we should heal her-" He helped Hawke into a sitting position, feeling her ribs through the fabric and scant leather padding that made up her tunic. He'd gotten used to that feeling whilst healing wardens, but it wasn't something one should expect to find in a patient who wasn't full of taint.

"I wish you wouldn't fixate on the fact that she does a little blood magic. She's promage, same as you." Hawke coughed dryly, moving slowly and pressing an elbow into her left side as he turned to look for the pan of water he'd boiled earlier, the one suitable for drinking, and tried not to be irritated by the comment and failed. Or rather, Justice failed.

"We are not the same, I don't deal with **demons**." Justice fought him a little, insisting that he wanted vengeance for the blood mage being promage as much as the spirit did. Anders ladled some water into a dented pewter flagon into the water and thrust it at Hawke.

"She's not the one possessed." Hawke took the cup in both hands and lifted it to her lips, hands shaking.

It took Hawke more effort than it should have to sit upright on the rickety table. Water trickled down her chin and the cup slipped from her hands, Anders barely able to snatch it before it fell to the ground. Even taking into consideration her exhaustion from the arena and the possible injuries she might have sustained, no reasonably healthy person moved like that.

Dark purple circles shadowed the hollows beneath her eyes, her face wan and pale. Her tongue had a blue tint as she licked her cracked lips, gazing at him with bleary, bloodshot eyes. There was a prominence to her bones that hadn't been there before. Her aura felt stretched, overcharged and heady. Lyrium. Lots more lyrium than anyone's body, even a mage, should have been trying to process. She watched him warily, her back hunched and her wrists resting on her knees. Gently, he gripped her wrists and checked her pulse: it was thready after the smiting, still working in little hop skips to get back up to speed but no permanent damage that he could discern.

"What have you been eating, Hawke?" He muttered, tipping her chin this way and that and grimacing at the sight. She looked very corpse like in the gloom of his clinic, a look that reminded him vaguely of when Justice had shambled around in Kristoff's rotting body. Hawke gave a heavy sigh and looked back at him dully.

"Not much." She muttered sullenly, the same type of resentful tone Anders imagined that he himself had taken with his Templar jailers of old. _Maker's blood, you'd think I was pulling her teeth instead of asking after her welfare. Really, I don't know why I bother __**she is a blight to the freedom of mages and the very spirit of duplicity and evil and**_-_Justice, stop it. _Though able to dispel Justice's influence slightly, Anders still scowled and shot Hawke a dirty look.

"Any particular reason for the self-starvation or have you just been eating all those sovereigns this little year long tantrum must have earned you-" He muttered angrily, plucking at her loose tunic and then throwing up his hands in disgust. He had food here somewhere, brought by the scant few patients who could afford to help him in return. Hawke shifted behind him, picking at the dried blood under her nails.

"Haven't been keeping any. Leaving it at Gamlen's for Leandra. Paid to have her audience bumped up from the bottom of the list. Other things, too." She muttered despondently, her voice a bare croak. Anders paused in his search for a heel of bread or chunk of cheese or really anything to give her so she didn't die on his exam table, surprised by the altruism in that statement. Until he surmised that 'other things, too' probably covered 'vast amounts of recreational lyrium' and disgust once again became his ruling emotion.

"That's no excuse not to feed yourself while most of these refugees starve. Or, if it'll ruin a night's sleep for you: Think of all the greedy, addicted templars you're gypping when you guzzle lyrium like it's candy. It'll be a miracle if you have any stomach lining left-"

"Don't push me, Anders." Something flickered in her glassy gaze and there was a new depth to her croak. The snap reminded him of when they'd first met, her storming into his clinic and demanding answers like she was the bloody queen of Ferelden. _Little girl_, he'd called her. Sometimes Anders could forget how young Hawke was, really. She didn't carry herself with the carefree alacrity of a woman in her early twenties, Hawke normally moved with the self-assurance of a competent, aggressive guardian. It was an attitude no doubt born of taking care of her family after her father's death, the persistence and grim confidence that hid beneath cockiness, veiled threats hiding behind humour. A maturity that bespoke pain…but there were times like this, like that first meeting, when her youth showed in her eyes.

There was menace there, a threat in the half-lidded glare. But fear, too. Uncertainty. Like a drakeling that knew one day it would become a High dragon and wreak down all the destruction that it's age and acquired prowess were due, but realized it's current state of weakness, how swiftly the right blade could snuff out it's potential. How far it had wandered from a warm nest and the safety of it's mother's wing…Anders sighed and shook his head, slumping back against a pillar beside the table Hawke was seated on.

"I don't know what in the great vast Void you thought you were doing, hiding from us. Popping in and out like Andraste's little helper and then what even was _that_? The fighting? Maker, Hawke, you could have been killed-" He expected her to jump down his throat, rise up and snap again. Anything was better than this despondency, her flat out refusal to so much as meet his eyes. "Or was that what you were hoping for?" Hawke was silent, looking through him when her gaze shifted. A chill chased it's way down his spine. _The most common way for a mage to die is by their own hand._ _But Hawke would never…not actively…Oh Maker. _"Hawke? Is that what you wanted?"

When he said it like that, when he reprimanded her like she was some tiny child…he made her problem seem petty. It couldn't be tiny, this thing she'd spent a year dwelling on, this colossal failure to protect the only people of value in her life. What did Anders know about family, anyway? He'd been dragged away from his years ago, he didn't know what it was like to watch the light leave your little sister's eyes. To stumble through frigid mud and rain for hours carrying rocks to cover your father's corpse, to build a cairn because you couldn't summon enough fire to burn him and you weren't strong enough to carry him. To then be helpless, utterly helpless, to stop a blight that was killing your only remaining sibling in front of your very eyes. To owe the man who could perform all the magic you couldn't, all the spells that could really help people, that magic that people looked at and smiled because they were blessed by such a beneficial mage…to owe that man _everything_, anything. That you would never stop owing him and to know that he would never look at you with anything but loathing in his eyes because he didn't _understand_. Anders didn't know the look of a mother who felt nothing for you but disgust and horror, a mother who'd lost every child but the one she liked the least, the cuckoo who had survived the cull. To have all of those things be _your _fault, because _your _magic wasn't good enough, because _you _should have been strong enough to save them all. Not even really because you were _magic_…but because of the _kind _of magic you were…

"You…you don't understand." She heard his sigh…a fed-up sigh, a sigh that said 'I'm sick of your bullshit'. A sigh that wasn't ready to listen, from someone that just thought they knew.

"You think I don't understand what it's like to feel helpless-" Before she could think it through, she leapt off the table, fists bunched and magic flaring. She ignored the wave of nausea that made her head spin and tried to focus on her rage. That was more important than her health. Damn him, damn his bloated ego and his readiness to just fling an all-or-nothing emotional trauma of his own at her.

"Oh shut up about the templars and the mages, damn it! For just one second, think about something other than that crock of dragon shite!"

"That 'crock of dragon shite' was my life-" _Was your life, now you have a new life and yet you just dwell! _

"Who did you fail to save? No one! All you bloody did was dream up ways to escape the tower! I wasn't helpless to defend them, I wasn't! I could have forced Carver to stay at home where he was safe! I could have demanded Bethany stay the Void back and let me handle protecting Mother! I should have t-t-told Father that I…I could have slaughtered…I was stupid and weak. I'm weak and the only thing that's strong about me is this magic!" She felt the raw fade coalesce, channeled it to the ends of her fingertips, flung the fireball at the stone wall before it could get too big for her to contain.

"So killing yourself will solve everything, will it? Maker, if every Circle mage had killed themselves over things they could have done and didn't the templars would have their work done for them-"

"I wasn't trying to kill myself-" There was a small and deceptively soft sound as the fire flared to life between her fingers, licking up her arms in lashing tendrils. Carmine and titian and that barest tint of sapphire where they sprang from her fingertips. A warm rush and tingle through all her limbs sparked and sustained by her anger and frustration. Even after her mana had been sapped, after being smote twice in one night, she had the power to kill in the palm of her hand.

"You just weren't adverse to dying, is that it? I'm not an idiot and I know a death wish, fatal ditch, last glorious battle plan when I see one. You certainly weren't trying to live-"

"Damn it, Anders. Leave me alone! Why do you care? I'm busy working to lock up the mages and you-" Anders grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, getting a good, firm shaking that rattled her teeth before she managed to bring her arms up and break his grasp.

"You just don't understand deserve a lot of things, Hawke. A good thrashing, which you got, but not death. Because death would make their sacrifices meaningless-" Oh the martyrdom! Again and again with him, it was like talking to a parrot who knew only three phrases and beat them to death. _His words hurt because they're true…you would have died and losing Beth and Father and Carver would have been pointless…_

"They shouldn't have had to-" Biting back the tears was getting harder and harder to do...

"But they did, and there's nothing you can do about it now. Life isn't fair and people die deaths they did nothing to deserve. I know about guilt, Hawke. For years, I wondered what would have happened if I had been there to stop Earyn from ever helping that idiot Jowan try to escape, wondered what would have happened if I'd just kept my mouth shut instead of filling her head with all my ineffectual whining. Wondered if I could had stopped those bastards making her a Tranquil. She didn't deserve it, Hawke. Not even by your standards. She never hurt anyone. I did, though. I had killed a few templars whilst on the run, they just never found out about it at the Circle. I deserved the brand. But I didn't get it, they did. I couldn't save them-"

"It's not the same as your family-"

"They were my family. In fact, looking at your relationship with Carver, I'd say they were better than family. Isn't that why you've kept little tabs on all of us while you had your little guilt fest here in Darktown? Even that prat of an heir apparent, you could have let the merc bands and Athenril's guild tear him into a thousand glittering pieces but you didn't. You care about us in a bizarre, backwards little way." Bizarre and backwards weren't very nice words for it.

"So? Even if I do, there's no reason for you to give a damn. I thought I made you miserable."

"Maker, yes. But we-"

"I swear, Anders, if you say 'we mages' I will beat you to death with my bare hands. I don't want you to stick with me just because I'm a mage." _Mages should stand together against the templars. _It had been years and she could still hear those words, clear as the day they were spoken. Anders already reminded her enough of the Mages' Collective without trying to cuddle up to her because he felt like he needed to have some sort of twisted kinship based on a shared 'gift'. The man frowned darkly at her, withdrawing the hand that had been reach out to touch her shoulder like she was a snake ready to bite him. That hurt. Why couldn't he understand that she meant 'beat you to death with my bare hands' in the fondest of ways? Anders took everything so bloody personally.

"Hawke, I'm here because I _want _to be here. Your magic isn't…that's not all there is to you. We're people first and mages second-" Her Father used to say that, emphasize that word 'people'. Like being a person made you moral. "-Hawke, I like you as a person. I dislike your choices at times, but not you."

Hawke looked up from scowling at the edge of the rotting table and met her fellow apostates eyes. Brown…kind of an amber, if you were feeling poetic. They were warm, sympathetic. Which was a lie, of course. Somewhere underneath that forgiving gaze the demon Vengeance festered, always ready to fight with her. She almost preferred fighting with Justice to Anders's milk-sop forgiveness. You couldn't trust it, either of the two states to stay consistent. The man and the mage. There was no separation, a mages' magic could never come second. The tentative smile, the reaching for her again-Hawke shied away and hopped from the table.

"Am I all healed to your strenuous and exacting standards?" Anders hand dropped back to his side and he let out a frustrated sound and immediately crossed his arms instead. Hawke felt…conflicted. A hand on her shoulder, a little gesture of comfort. Couldn't I suffer that? Wouldn't it be nice…just to lean into those stupid pauldrons and have a good cry? Or a nap? Maker, I'm losing my mind. As if he'd allow that, as if I could trust him not to start mingling the 'friendship' feelings with the 'mages unite against a common enemy' feelings.

"No."

"Good, I'll just be…what do you mean 'no'? I'm walking, aren't I?" Hawke turned and glowered at him. In a second, she was either going to punch him or wrap her arms around his waist and sob into his neck. Maker, this is what this damnable man does to me. I've reverted back to my childhood state.

"You're hobbling." Anders arched one golden brow, giving her a dubious once over.

"Only a little." Hawke tried to straighten and swore violently as the old wound between her ribs flared with pain. It did that, after difficult fights. Like something in it had never truly healed all the way through. Damn it. Why can't I make a clean getaway, just this once? Another part of her sparked with a nervousness. Where will you go now? Can't go back to Leandra…not again. The thought made her sick to her empty stomach.

"You could have internal injuries." Bugger that.

"I don't _feel _like I have internal injuries." She hedged, taking stock. Maker, she felt dead, but she wasn't about to tell him that.

"Yes, you won't. Until you bleed out inside and die of shock. If you're so very adverse to staying the night here, in the company of a Abomination-"

"It's not you, it's me." She snapped before she could think of how that sounded and then glared at the toes of her boots as Anders took a few steps towards her."If I had a copper for every time I heard that, I could pay off Isabela's tab at the Hanged Man. In any case, I can check for you. But you'll have to take off your-" Hawke struggled to extricate herself from the tunic, noting the lack of her vambraces and resolving to ask Anders about this later. When she wasn't exhausted and sick of hearing his voice chide her. "-tunic. Lovely."

Modesty was nice if you had time for it. Hawke didn't and the roadmap of bruises made her groan…hopefully, she was in the clear. She remembered staying still whilst Bethany had tried this for the first time, years and years ago. Anders cleared his throat politely and she glanced up, frowning."What, do I need to hop out of my trousers as well?"

"No. But I need you facing the other way-"

"Maker's breath." Hawke grumbled, turning to face the Clinic's doors and holding her arms out to her sides, trying to wince in pain. "Proceed, already."

She felt his magic stir behind her, the slight flush of heat that started at her wrist as Anders passed his hands over her arms, a hairsbreadth away from the skin. A slight tingling sensation accompanied the spell, a sensation that was vaguely pleasant. Different, actually, from Bethany's stumbling attempts. Her's had always left Hawke feeling numb in all her extremities, like instead of drawing out the pain, her sister had been drawing out the feeling. Hawke sighed and relaxed fractionally, it was different enough from healing magic that it didn't trigger any panic.

"So…would you like to know how I became a spirit healer, back in the Circle?" His tone was oddly conversational, almost nice. For once, it didn't sound like the voice of a man about to leap onto a soapbox and start ranting. His hands came together at her shoulder blades, hovering over the base of her neck.

"How?"

"Well, other than the fact that I was good at it, healing is an excellent excuse to get women to take off their clothes. As a young man, I think that was part of what appealed to me the most about it." Hawke felt a smirk spreading across her lips despite herself. She could almost pretend he was actually flirting with her, instead of simply making conversation to put her at ease. It was…a strangely flattering fantasy. The magic perusal drifted down to the base of her spine, then around to her hips and up her sides.

"…You know you scared the elf pretty badly, Streyga. I've never seen him so pale." Anders sounded amused, a little spiteful as he moved on to her other arm, pausing at her left shoulder for a moment.

"Fenris?" Hawke felt a swift rush of guilt hit her like a kick to the gut. Here I am chatting to Anders and Fenris had to face slavers tonight and…Oh Maker, the arena is…everything I've been doing, the way I've been acting. Tevinter. Magic. Hawke felt dread and shame mingle in the pit of her stomach.

"Turn." Hawke turned around to face him, letting her arms fall to her sides. She was barely able to summon a neutral expression quickly enough to hide the despairing one from Anders's view. Even then, she was sure she wasn't fooling him.

"This is badly scarred. It's deep, like it was never healed properly..." Anders paused, one hand hovering over the scar between her ribs. The old scar, the scar that was the none-of-his-damn-business scar. Anders opened his eyes and looked at her, frowning as his magic quested over the injury.

"Are we done?" Hawke swallowed roughly, struggling against the urge to pull away from him quickly and force him to repeat this long, arduous process.

"For now-" The door flew open behind him and Aveline stormed inside.

"Look here, mage. Is Hawke alri-oh." The Guard Captain stopped so quickly that if it had been anyone but Isabela tailing her, they would have slammed into her. Instead, the quick footed rogue sidestepped with a wide smile on her face.

"Oooh. Nice rack, Sweet Thing. Small, but nice." Leave it to Isabela to notice the important things in life…

"Hawke! Oh Hawke! I was going to run in here and give you a hug but now I think that might be a little awkward…" Merril peered at her chest and Hawke cleared her throat and crossed her arms over her breast band, for the first time feeling a little uncomfortable. "Did you hurt them terribly? Is that why Anders has been taking so long healing you?"

"Thanks." _Oh Merril, Maker's breath and Andraste's tears, what would I give just to have a normal bunch of _-Fenris?! Who was, again, looking appalled. And this time, something that bordered on anger. Hawke snatched her tunic off the corner of the table and yanked it on over her head, struggling to get her arms in the right holes. _I'm sorry, Oh Maker. _Of all of the friends that she'd…fallen out of touch with over the last year, Fenris was the one she'd felt the most guilty about.

"Fenris!"

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><p>Half<em> nude in the presence of the Abomination yet again. He plans this, doesn't he?<em> Fenris watched Hawke fumble into her tunic, the openly guilty look as she staggered towards him. Staggering? Had he done nothing to heal her? Had they simply talked at each other in that tiresome way they did, fighting circles around one another? Fenris tried to make himself smile, but the effort was fruitless. The most he could manage was a neutral scowl as Hawke nearly slammed into him in her haste.

"I was…we…he…" This was…unexpected. Hawke was rarely at a loss for words, nor was guilt a common expression on her face. Fenris felt Varric's boot press lightly on the outside of his foot and glared down at the dwarf's encouraging look.

"I was making sure she didn't have any broken ribs." Anders spoke up from across the room, arms folded over his chest and expression surly. _Of course you were._

"And?"

"I'm fine. Also, tired. I've had enough of Darktown to last a lifetime. Can we-"

"Go? Yes, Hawke. In fact, how about I march you straight up to the brig in the Viscounts Keep. Flames, do you know how many reports I have littering my desk, what I've had to do to keep the Templars from dashing down here to root you out-" Varric stepped forward with his hands raised in a placating gesture, putting himself between Hawke and the irate Aveline. Fenris subconsciously shifted his weight to his toes, prepared to block the other warriors charge if necessary. Another ridiculous reaction.

"Come on, Red. Hawke just got back, can't you give her a little bit of a grace period before you let the axe fall, eh? Look at that innocent, tattoo covered face. Isn't she just the picture of contrite lawfulness-" Aveline's focused swiveled and her freckled face went as red as her hair, fists clenching and unclenching.

"Breathe, Big-"

"Oh shut up, shut up right now. Hawke, would you really prefer I wait to punish you-"

"Maker yes. I'll do whatever you want later, Aveline. I just really need a few days rest before you stretch me on the rack-shut up, Isabela-also, I know that you'll think about it and realise how much you missed me and the sentence won't be so bad, will it?" Aveline glared flatly and folded her arms with a clanking sound.

"Three days in the brig."

"Two."

"Hawke, that number is nonnegotiable-"

"Two days and Leandra bakes you a few pies…" Hawke's grin became a little wobbly then and she swayed dangerously. Fenris grabbed her before she could fall, his heart slamming in his chest unpleasantly.

"Van hedis, can we not have this conversation later? Must we discuss this while Hawke is falling down of exhaustion?" He tried to keep the anxiety from his voice as he said it, glowering at all of them. Anders stepped forward, clearing his throat.

"For once, we agree on something. Hawke, if you need a place to sleep you're welcome to-"

"My mansion should be sufficient." If Hawke thought he was letting her out of his sight, she was grievously mistaken. If the mage thought he could keep her here in Darktown with slavers hunting for her then he was more of a fool than Fenris had originally supposed. Fenris glared at the rest of them, daring them to disagree.

"Your drafty mansion? I don't think-" Fenris felt his body tense and was ready to snarl at the mage when Hawke spoke up, struggling to take on more of her own weight and stand unassisted:

"I like drafty mansions. Having four walls and most of a roof over your head is nothing to thumb your nose at, Anders. That and the dripping here, Maker, how can anyone stand the dripping in Darktown? Besides, I'll have a nice, strong elf to protect me should anything go desperately awry. This way, everyone's happy."

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><p>Fenris shut the door to the large part of the mansion, toeing a ragged carpet over as a draft stop. His chamber was not so drafty, especially with the fire burning still in the grate. Hawke casually chucked a small fireball at it and used the hand that wasn't pressed into her side to throw some bits of broken furniture on the miniature inferno, stumbling a little with the effort. Fenris hurried to help her, watching the way she tipped precariously forward towards the fireplace. The last thing he needed was to have to drag her back down to the Abomination to have burns treated. Hawke sighed and let him take over, muttering a breathy thank you. She was oddly…quiet. Vulnerable in a way Hawke not often was. It made him…uncomfortable.<p>

"Hawke, quid simalum?"

"Nullos-" Hawke began lightly, innocently.

"Something is wrong, Hawke. Why did you not tell us you'd returned? Why did you not tell…why did you not tell me?" That was really what had hurt the most…_did she not think that I could be trusted? Was she angry that I did not insist to join her in the Deep Roads?_

"I left you that bottle of aggregio to let you know-"

"I thought you were dead-""Maybe I should be." She fell onto one of the mildewed couches, her limbs thrown about haphazardly. Her head made a hollow thunking noise as it clunked back against the edge of the couch, her fingers sliding through her hair and clenching like claws in the strands at her temples. She dipped forward again, elbows resting on her knees and head in her hands. Exhaustion and carelessness in her every motion, effort to her breath.

"Hawke…"

"Maybe I should have been the one who caught the taint. Maybe I should have been the one who died protecting Mother. Maker knows she would have been better off with her babies. My own brother. I l-l-lost…I lost…"

Hawke sucked in a heavy gasp and shut her eyes, dragging her hands down her face. This was not the Hawke who had left for the Deep Roads, not the same woman. Whether it was the events of the Roads that had changed her or her homelessness in Darktown, he could not be sure. But here was a Hawke who couldn't meet his eyes, who had barely been able to stand against the overwhelming force of slavers that had come upon her. Perhaps that could be blamed on fatigue…but for a moment, it had seemed like she'd _stopped_. Hawke didn't stop, Hawke fought to the last. Hawke didn't allow the Abomination to goad her to the point of madness. Hawke didn't just give up. To a slave, to give up meant to die, one way or the other. _Dedos et mors adphrendet vos_. _Yield and death will find you. _The inverse of it's sister phrase _Na via lerno victor_.

"You should not have hid from us-" You should have let us help you, you should have been strong-

"You didn't want to see me…you still don't. I get sick of pretending, Fenris. Don't you?" Fenris watched her warily, the sharp blue eyes dulled by exhaustion, shining wetly in the gloom.

"I do not need to pretend anything."

"Isabela been teaching you how to be dodgy in conversation, has she? It doesn't matter. I just…I'm-"

Fenris slammed his hand through the coffee table between them, barely even bothering to light up his markings in time. Wood shattered and splintered with a grand cacophony of cracking mingled with his snarl. Hawke could not fall apart. She was Hawke, she was supposed to be strong. She needed to be strong; he had no idea how to handle her if she was otherwise. She needed to be the Hawke who'd pecked him on the cheek before leaving for the thrice damned Deep Roads. The Hawke who was loud and rowdy and made a scene out of the smallest of events. The Hawke who looked lovely and fierce and proud always, the woman who never faltered. He fixed her with a glare, hoping to intimidate the old Hawke into making a reappearance. Instead, she was staring with wide eyes at where his wrist had punch through the table and was still lodged."Fenris! Fenris, you daft idiot! You're bleeding!" Fenris jerked his fist from the shattered wood and frowned. A few superficial scratches over his markings, it was nothing. He opened his mouth to speak only to find that Hawke had leaned forward and was eyeing the injury with concern

She reached out and gently grasped his gauntlet before he could speak, slowly guiding him closer. His breath caught and he sat on the edge of the table across from her, letting the mage cradle his wrist. She was always considerate of his markings, careful not to touch them. Unlike the fool healer who always treated everyone as though he could put his filthy magical hands all over them and treat their ills without the barest amount of consent. Hawke made a soft hissing sound in sympathy as she spotted the sliver of wood lodged under the metal and leather.

"Is that…actually under the skin?" Fenris gingerly unbuckled the metal gauntlet with one hand, letting Hawke catch it as it fell away. "Ow! Fenris!"

"Yes." Yes, the answer was definitely yes, the splinter had broken the skin. Fenris tried to suppress his wince and his surge of nausea. Hawke looked up at him apologetically and-still careful to only touch leather, spoke:

"If you…erm, if you activate your markings it might hurt less and I can pull out the splinter for you. I'm sorry I can't heal, the best I could do would be to cauterize it-"

"A bandage, I think." Did his voice sound high? Panicked? Van hedis it was just a splinter! At least Hawke was no longer falling apart at the seams.

"Oh, right! A bandage. Have you got any-"

"Mantle piece." Fenris shut his eyes and gritted his teeth as Hawke went to retrieve them. He heard the sound of something shattering, a vile curse word and then Hawke was back, sitting on the couch across from him and holding a roll of bandages and-

"Now is hardly the time for drinking, Hawke."

"I'm going to clean it, you silly man. And yes, maybe drink a little." 'Silly' was not a word one heard Hawke utter often and he had to work hard to keep the smile from his face. Also, she'd called him 'man'. Not elf, not slave. Fenris watched her face as she poured a little wine onto a scrap of bandage. Hawke had a lovely face, a very human face. Elves were all angles and hard lines, human's were touchably soft, curved. Hawke herself was exceptionally pale, it made the blue of her tattoos stand out-

"Alright, look me in the eye. Don't look at the sliver. May I…" Hawke's hand hovered over his wrist. _May I touch you._ Fenris nodded and Hawke slid her left arm under his, slowly- Fenris sucked in a sharp breath as his markings flared to life. "I'm sorry-!" He had to grab her arm to keep her from jerking away again, jarring the splinter.

"No, don't move. It's fine. Just let me…get used to you." He knew what it was like to have a mage touch his markings, but it was different each time. Just like every person had a distinct scent, every mage's magic had a distinct flavour. Danarius had always felt like dread and blood and pain. Hawke felt like…fire. A warm, cozy fire. An energy that crackled through her and made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Fire that throbbed in tune with his pulse, pain from her magic skimming over the lyrium…but pleasure, too. A queer sort of comfort in the fire and pain and pulse. The passion. Fenris let out a breath and met her gaze with his own. He began to-

"AH!" Hawke was looking at him with desperate repentance in her eyes, a bloody splinter clutched in one hand.

"Sorry! It's done!"

"Fasta vas, woman! I wasn't ready!" The splinter made a soft sound as it hit the wood and Hawke lunged and grabbed the wine soaked bandage piece, pressing it to the puncture-_how can such a tiny wound hurt so much?_-and then wrapping the bandage gingerly around his wrist. A few deft, quick movements and she was nearly done, smoothing the wrinkles and edges of the bandage. "What does it feel like?"

"Sorry?" Hawke glanced up in confusion and Fenris felt his ear tips flush. The inner musing was supposed to have stayed _inner_, he hadn't meant to blurt it like that.

"I…what does the lyrium feel like to you?" Hawke pressed her lips together and shifted slightly, as though the question made her uncomfortable.

"I mean, it's magic. So I…there aren't words…like jumping into a cold clear lake on a hot day. Like the feeling of a sea breeze against bare skin. Fresh and bitter and a…a shock, but a welcome shock. But it's tattooed to you so it…it feels like _you_." The last was said so softly he barely heard it, Hawke's gaze downcast on his arm.

"Like me?" _Magic, lyrium has given you your own form of magic. She can taste you, too._ Hawke's face was close to his own as she tied off the bandage at his elbow. The blue white glow of the markings lit her face eerily in the gloom, darkened her tattoos and leant her eyes a bright cast, gleamed off the silver of her hair.

"Like…ferocity. Escape. Passion and pain." Hawke said softly, her fingers slowly slipping from his skin and taking his sense of her with it. Fenris had never imagined he would actually regret a mage no longer touching him. She met his eyes, her pupils blown wide from the proximity with the lyrium. _Lust_. Every mage felt that around the markings, they couldn't help themselves.

"Is that…good?"

"Yes." Hawke let out her breath in a long, slow sigh. "It's you. That makes it good."

Fenris remained quiet for a moment, watching the human woman sitting on his couch. The mage. The year spent in Darktown had taken it's toll on her, Hawke was leaner and meaner looking than she had been when she left for the Deep Roads. A healing scar on her left temple, so faded as to be barely distinguishable from the surrounding skin but adding a new line of character to her face nonetheless. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. It seemed more laboured than when last he'd noticed it, a catch to her breath. Smears of drying blood, scratches and bruises patterned her skin; minor injuries acquired over her long sojourn in Darktown. The faint shadows beneath her eyes, battle scars of sleepless nights spent alone and cold beneath the streets of Kirkwall. Hunted, haunted and lovely but harsh. Hawke's face had a subtle brutality.

Hesitantly, he reached out and touched the scar on her temple. Hawke hummed and leaned into his fingers, opening her eyes. What must it feel like to receive a touch and not be in pain from it? To simply take pleasure in the brush of skin upon skin and not be filled with dread? He envied that freedom..

"Did you receive this during the expedition?"

"You could say that." Hawke shrugged, meeting his gaze. Another lie that wasn't quite a lie. The weal was smooth beneath his lyrium traced fingers…an oddly shaped wound. Fenris let his hand fall from her temple and cleared his throat softly.

"I should…we should sleep. Do you require-"

"Don't worry, Fenris. I won't break. Just having somewhere soft and safe to sleep is a blessing. I…thank you." She smiled gamely at him, cuddling up to the arm rest of the couch. Fenris dithered for a moment before a thought came to him. _It's cold, there are spare blankets in the cabinet. _He opened his mouth to tell her so, then clamped it shut again. She was already relaxing, he couldn't make her stumble around in the dark sorting through musty old coverlets.

Quickly and quietly, he retrieved one and then immediately dropped it when a nest of mice scurried from the folds of fabric, their tiny pink babies wriggling helplessly in the threads. Van hedis, now what? Frustrated by his predicament and too tired to search for a mouse-less blanket, he tugged a sheet off his bed and returned to Hawke. She was already fast asleep, curled up so that her back was to the fire and she was facing the back of the couch.

Gently, he tucked the edges around her delicate little mage shoulders. There was a paradox in that mages, dangerous living weapons that they were, tended to be ridiculously physically fragile. He used to relish Hadriana's frequent colds…the memories made him shudder. No, best replace any memory of past mages with one of Hawke. Beaten, bedraggled and curled up shivering on an old moldy couch. Even in this state, she was more noble than the finest, loftiest of magisters.

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><p><strong>Author's End Note:<strong> Was that...fluff? I blame the holidays...don't forget to maybe leave a review :D ?


	15. Noble Mage

**Author's Note:** Hi everyone, I know I haven't updated in over a year. My Dad got diagnosed with cancer so um, yeah. I just couldn't write for a while. Sorry if this chapter is a little short/discombobulated, I might edit it a bunch later. Just wanted to post something for everyone...yep.

_"Power is a poison well known for thousands of years. If only no one were ever to acquire material power over others! But to the human being who has faith in some force that holds dominion over all of us, and who is therefore conscious of his own limitations, power is not necessarily fatal. For those, however, who are unaware of any higher sphere, it is a deadly poison. For them, there is no antidote."_ **~Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn**

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><p>Hawke sat in one of the large armchairs-her armchairs, armchairs that were her's, Maker curse it-and listened to Leandra babble about ownership of the mansion they lived in. If Hawke cocked her head to the side and allowed a little bit of the snarling to sneak through one ear and out the other, she could vaguely determine the nature of the screaming fit had something to do with Hawke tracking blood across her clean floors. Something about a ruined set of drapery. Food. Something about thank the Maker for Bodahn because without him nothing would ever get done-the grievances were too numerous to count. It all boiled down to something about Carver and a hapless fit of tears.<p>

Leandra had specifically waited to have this fit until it had started raining cats and dogs outside the mansion and any chances of Hawke escaping before it got into full swing were next to none. Not that Hawke really would have minded the rain terribly, but ruining the Maker damned taffeta of the gown she was wearing just wasn't worth it.

Contrary to popular belief, Hawke actually liked dressing up for things. Usually it was a particular fetching piece of long-skirted armour but a gown was a welcome change. Maybe if she'd been born a quick-footed, agile rogue or a warrior who only really felt at home in heavy armor she would have been irritated by it. But mages were no strangers to long skirts and fitted fabrics. Wearing something she couldn't get blood on was a little disconcerting to be sure, but she'd manage. She had to. It wasn't all that different from combat, the battlefield was smaller and the casualties more subtle but the nobility was really no less treacherous. Of course, Kirkwall nobility took after Orlesian upper class in that all the nastiness went on behind the scenes. Hawke felt like she'd have been more at home if they were to observe the Tevinter custom of 'may the scariest magister win' , however. Maybe one day…

But it was the gown that had really irked her mother for a start. Dark blue and in a 'racy' Tevinter style that bared her shoulder's, it's fitted bodice exposing the upper swell of her breasts and a scant glimpse of cleavage. Panels of arcane embroidery in silver thread traced down the skirt which, contrary to Orlais's fascination with ridiculously billowing skirts with an assemblage of petty coats to get lost in, was more fitted. Leandra hated it. Apparently, her mother had specifically requested that she wear something powder blue and Hawke had neglected to see the difference between the various shades. Well, no. That was a lie. Powder blue was just Andraste be a painted whore hideous and the dark midnight blue looked better with her chasind tattoos.

"-I told you you could use some powder to cover them! Now we don't match-"

"Woman, who says we have to match? The Kirkwall fashion police? Really, the dress cost me enough that I could have hired someone to clean up the blood stains you find so offensive-" That was a lie, she'd bought the beautiful garment for a song. At least a quarter as much as it was really worth. The merchant she'd haggled it off of couldn't sell the thing fast enough. As he'd told it, he'd been in a bit of trouble with a Tevinter money lender and had ended up owing 'favours'. Not the least of which was selling some clearly out of fashion gowns…she'd bought the lot for under ten sovereigns. A pittance, really. But Leandra didn't need to know that.

"Do not woman me, I am your mother. And that shade of blue looks dreadful with your hair…honestly, if you would just dye it-" The nagging went on and on and on. There was some fancy Orlesian champagne in crates just inside the basement door, waiting to be chilled for tonight's housewarming party. Hawke flirted briefly with the idea of digging around for the bottle opener and then dismissed it. Having a weapon in her hand and being talked at by Leandra was too tempting. Hawke graciously thanked the powers that be that she'd had the mischievous idea to invite her companions to this.

They'd show up later, of course, so Leandra wouldn't have a chance to object-

"Mistress Hawke?" Bodahn gave a short little bow as he entered, beaming proudly.

"Yes?" She and Leandra answered in unison, her mother's voice soft with noble courtesy whilst her own was a gruff bark. Maker curse it, if Leandra kept answering to that title there were going to be issues.

"May I present his lordship Prince Vael of Starkhaven-"

"Just Sebastian will do, thank you." Hawke bolted upright so quickly she startled Theedog where he was resting beside the chair. She knew that voice. The others had told her that he'd been looking for her, that he'd been brave enough to eavesdrop on them and then attempt to give them important information about her whereabouts, even if he truly hadn't known himself. Hawke took a deep breath and prepared herself for how much would it cost to pay off the Prince, to prevent him from tipping off the Templars-

Sebastian Vael looked much the same as the time she'd seen him last, half a year earlier: Still wearing the same sinfully shiny armor, the greave's and under mail reeking of Starkhaven military fashion. Those same piercing blue eyes and that smooth, benevolent smile. Hawke tried to resist the urge to flee as they widened in surprise when he recognized her. Curse the thrice damned tattoos to the void and back again, there was no mistaking who she was. For Sebastian's part, he made a nice recovery as he bowed to Leandra.

"My Lady Leandra, a pleasure to finally meet you." He took her hand and kissed it genteelly, his eyes never leaving her's. For a moment, Hawke wondered what he saw there. Deep, dark blue Amell eyes shot through with veins of gray. Her eyes…almost. But Leandra's were different, of course. Warm and at the moment, crinkled at the corners with delight.

"I…the pleasure is all mine, Prince Vael-"

"Just Sebastian, please." Hawke couldn't help but snort. Sebastian would have a better shot at teaching a darkspawn to juggle in a suit of motley than getting Leandra to abandon her courtly courtesies. Her mother's gaze snapped up to her face, dagger sharp with unspoken reprimand. Streyga cleared her throat delicately and held out a hand to shake before remembering herself and bow-no, you're supposed to curtsy-bobbing in a dignified manner in the prince's general direction. Leandra's look of exasperation and horror was so rabid and deranged it was all Hawke could do to keep a straight face.

"So that's what your name is. I had you pegged as a Stephan." Leandra whimpered and Sebastian looked amused as he took her hand and kissed her knuckles, eyes like a summer sky staring directly into her own. There was no threat there that she could discern but she gratefully took her hand back all the same.

"My Lady Hawke, you'll have to excuse me for showing up uninvited-"

"Just Hawke, please." Behind Sebastian's back, Leandra was nearly in tears. His smile widened and he chuckled softly, straightening.

"Just so. In that case, Hawke: I was wondering if I might trouble you for a few moments to talk privately-"

"I'll just be in the entrance hall, darling!" Maker's breath, Leandra had gotten strident these last few years. Strident and obvious. Hawke rolled her eyes and turned towards the study, beckoning Sebastian to follow. The Prince shut the door carefully behind him and settled himself in one of the arm chairs. Hawke lounged in the one across from him, dangling her legs over and armrest and folding her arms over her chest. Sebastian still managed to look smarmily amused, settling back and clearing his throat:

"I wanted to thank you. Officially."

"What for? Harassing you in the Chantry three years ago?"

"Yes, that too, actually. But most importantly, for the service you did my family." Sebastian's thick Starkhaven burr grew soft and husky and he lowered his eyes to the patterned carpet.

"I did your family a service?"

"Through an intermediary, yes. Your associate, a very loquacious dwarf by the name of…Varric? Came to me to collect the bounty set on the heads of the Flint Company mercenaries-"

"Oh, them. Yes, I've killed so many people sometimes I get the lot of them confused." Hawke waved a hand and then realized what she'd just said. "I mean I…well, I'm glad I could stop them troubling your family."

"I suspect very little will trouble my family, Hawke. They were killed by the very same company of mercenaries prior to your intervention. I am in your debt." Hawke froze and thought back. She'd met him bitching about Bethany…and he'd lost his whole family to the Flint Company. She opened her mouth and shut it again. Sorry was a stupid thing to say. Hawke sat up and swallowed carefully, meeting Sebastian's too blue eyes with her own.

"No, you're not in my debt. I hear no templars pounding down my door to drag me off in chains so…well, we're at least even. You…would you stay for the party? I'm sure Leandra is just dying to-" As she spoke, her mother swept back into the room with a flourish and Bodahn carrying a platter of some tiny sandwiches to set on the table up against one wall.

"What my darling daughter means to say is that we would be simply delighted if you would join us. I know it would mean the world to her if you would consent to be our guest of honour." 'Consent' sounded suspiciously like something to do with marriage…Leandra'd been doing that a lot lately. Slipping up in normal conversations and all but begging half the nobility in Kirkwall to 'put a ring on that' as Isabela liked to say with a wink and a nod and a hip check to an increasingly annoyed and hostile Fenris. Having Sebastian and he in the same room would only serve to complicate things further than they needed to be complicated.

"I couldn't possibly intrude-"

"I insist." Leandra's arm locked around Sebastian's like a steal trap and he shot Hawke a somewhat wide eyed look as her mother dragged him off to go select wines or something. The true intention of course would be to dazzle the man with a list of superior wifely traits that she allegedly possessed. It was all a lie. Hawke could barely patch the rips in her robes let alone master any sort of noble cross-stitch, rarely home and no man wanted a woman who could literally light a fire under his arse if he stepped a toe out of line. Mother's behaviour might have been embarrassing if Hawke gave a scabby rat's arse about marrying the man. The idea was laughable. He was too pious, too shiny. Blech.

But then, he was a prince. An heir to a throne...that kind of power was enticing. Eh, I'm not that desperate. Hawke rolled her eyes and crossed to fish a bottle of ale out from behind a book about Kirkwall's history, pulling off the cork and taking a swig. She was easily one of the richest women in Kirkwall, and all of that without a husband. It was more fun to be her own agent...for now. Hmm.

Oh well, at least Leandra was distracted…

* * *

><p>"Well, who's going first? Blondie, Rivaini?" The dwarf was having too much fun with this, Fenris decided, glaring at the door to Hawke's mansion like it was a venomous snake. He never should have agreed to come to here…but Hawke had pinned him with that perfect, upward quirk of her elegant lips and he'd been so mesmerized by it he'd mindlessly assented to her request.<p>

Behind him stood the entire fleet of Hawke's mismatched rabble of companions, awkwardly fidgeting on the doorstep. The Abomination was as alert as a startled alley cat, ready to dive for the gutter at the first sign of Templars, out of place in the Tevinter version of nobleman's garb. No doubt he'd worn something somewhat appropriate just to irritate Hawke. The Witch was standing near the back and examining the ivy climbing the trellises outside Hawke's door, swishing her simple green skirt absently and beaming like a child. Isabela sighed and thrust her hip out to the side in her dark red dress, rolling her eyes past her smile.

"I think it'd have been more fun if we'd come up through the wine cellar like thieves in the night." Varric chuckled and gave Isabela's elbow a consoling pat, his honey brown eyes warm with mirth.

"Next time, Rivaini. When we're certain all the important people will be there. For now-"

"For the Maker's sake-" Aveline shoved by them, stubbornly wearing her full plate in lieu of anything dressy(Fenris silently approved, he himself had refused to dress in anything fancier than his armour.), and pounded on the door with a mailed fist. "Bodahn! Let us in!"

The door opened smoothly to reveal the little dwarven doorman, whose bushy eyebrows shot up at the sight of them. Had Hawke told him? She must have, or they'd surely have encountered more resistance than a mumbled greeting and a hurried wave inside. Fenris gritted his teeth and felt the lyrium surge slightly beneath his skin. Not enough to glow, but to prickle as he entered the entrance hall with the other's at his back. The dull buzz of forced conversation could be heard before they'd even entered the main drawing room and when they did it silenced somewhat as everyone turned to see the ragtag group of them enter. Fenris might have turned around right then if it hadn't been for Varric's insistent push and Hawke's timely appearance.

"Fenris!" Hawke pushed her way through the battalion of dithering, glittering nobles and stood before him with a brilliant smile on her face. Relief pulsed through him in a powerful swoop, Hawke was just the same as she'd always been. Just dressed more nicely. The Tevinter style suits her, as it would any mage. He thought ruefully, eyeing the pale flesh of Hawke's throat, the blue and silver embroidery gracing her bust and the smooth way the fabric clung to her every curve. I did not think I needed anyone, or wanted anyone…until now. The dark, hungry look Hawke had given him when he'd said that had been oddly welcome. But there was something familiar about the gown that he couldn't place…then it came to him-Fenris blinked and swallowed hard. She will not be pleased by the Abomination's choice of garment.

"Hawke." He remembered his forced courtesy at the last moment and took her hand, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. She gave him an odd and measuring look and he shrugged. She was the one choosing to play the noble game, he was playing along. "A pleasure."

"Oh, Fenris." Hawke rolled her eyes and pecked him lightly on the cheek. In a room full of nobles, Hawke's lips lingered just a moment longer than necessary, warm breath tickling his ear.

"Who are-Oh Maker, no." Leandra fell into a breathy silence as she caught sight of them, a man in brilliantly luminescent armour standing beside her with raised eyebrows.

"Mother, be polite." Hawke admonished lightly, handing Fenris a goblet and winking at him gamely. He brought it to his lips and sipped. Aggreggio. The woman knew what he liked, surely this bottle hadn't come cheaply. "These are my friends, I know you've met them before-"

"Wotcher, Lady Amell." Isabela piped up, snagging the entire bowl of Orlesian caviar from a server and scooping out a portion with her fingers before popping it into her mouth. Isabela let out a seductive groan, smacking her plump lips with an unparalleled and extraordinarily sexual relish. Fenris tried to make his sips look as delicate as possible and resist the urge to swig as he nodded to Leandra. Hawke smirked wickedly and kissed her mother on the cheek, taking a flute of champagne from another passing server and knocking it back.

"Merril, Varric, Aveline and…oh, you rat bastard." Several noble's turned at the exclamation and Hawke and the Abomination's eyes met. As he had expected, they matched. Perfectly.

"Don't look at me like that, it was all I could…it's not my fault we have the same taste in clothes." The Abomination snapped, eyes lingering far too long on Hawke's ensemble for Fenris's liking. Hawke didn't seem to have an answer for that and instead folded her arms and made a snorting sound.

"You have a perfectly hideous feathery coat at home. Why didn't you wear that?"

"Ahem, Hawke. Would you be willing perhaps to properly introduce me to your friends? Varric and I know each other but-"

"Pleased to make your dashing acquaintance, Sweet Thing. Again. Hawke didn't tell us she'd be entertaining a pretty boy from Starkhaven. If she had, I would have worn less clothes. Name's Isabela, Captain Isabela but I've misplaced my ship-" Isabela held out a handful of caviar before remembering herself and switching hands. Varric chuckled, Aveline rolled her eyes and the 'pretty boy from Starkhaven' managed to contain enough composure to take Isabela's hand and place a quick kiss on her knuckles. Hawke laughed and leaned into Fenris so unexpectedly he nearly staggered into a server.

"Oh, sorry. This one who I nearly knocked over is Fenris. I think you two'll get along just fine. Varric you know-Oh! Here's-Merril, come here! Nope, that wine's a bit strong for you…Bodahn water this down a little and bring it back for her, would you? Very good-" Hawke went through the motions of nobility with a surprising amount of grace, nothing like her typical self. She introduced the little Dalish Witch to Sebastian a contented smile on her face as the little elven woman blushed when the prince pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Noble Hawke was still Hawke, still a glitter of mischief and viciousness in her eyes, but she was at odds with the woman who could normally be found making obscene gestures and comments and parading around the Hanged Man singing drunken and horrifically off key ballads.

"…and this is Anders, my incredibly well-dressed and exceptionally talented healer." Hawke finished with a flourish, retrieving a flute of Orlesian champagne and downing it in one gulp. Hawke couldn't mean that? Surely she was being sarcastic? Yes, the mage was talented; but he'd never known her to acknowledge him as such.

Fenris tried not to let that bother him as he leaned against the banister, watching the Kirkwall nobility mingle in Hawke's relatively small foyer. Several of the nobles came up to Hawke, speaking in hushed and solicitous tones, judging her with every sideways glance her way. Each time one of them approached her, especially from an angle at which she wasn't immediately aware of their approach, his heartbeat quickened. Being Danarius's body guard for so many years-not to mention a runaway slave-had instilled in him a strong and enduring sense of paranoia. Magisters would readily kill each other in broad daylight or in the middle of ballrooms…in fact, Magisters acknowledged that the middle of a social function was the best time to kill someone. It was one of the principal reasons that Tevinter fashion looked like it did: A relative ease of movement could be afforded by something that was nearly the same make and style as most mage robes, with detailed embroidery on a thick, armour-like bodice-

Fenris was barely able to stop himself from tackling an unfortunate little noblewoman to the ground when she tapped Hawke on the shoulder with her dessert spoon, an instrument that in his hyperaware state, he had almost mistaken for a bodice dagger. The woman need not have bothered trying to dirty the robe with the cream covered spoon, Tevinter fabrics were imbued with runes that wicked away blood and other offending substances(usually gore) and thus were nearly impossible to ruin. Hawke turned, reaching up and flicking the glob of cream off her shoulder casually. It was nothing but providence that guided the offending substance to plop neatly onto the other woman's silk collar. Fenris hid his smile in his wine and tried to relax, Hawke was fine.

"Dulci, so sorry. Did you need something?" Hawke's voice was pitched low and inviting, but there was a world of threat contained within it. The voice urged 'come closer' and the gaze said 'so I might rip out your heart'. Hawke would have made a terrific magister, of that he had no doubt. Fenris shifted uncomfortably at the thought and took a breath. She isn't like the magisters, she is good. Hawke is a good mage. The short woman rose to the challenge, her Orlesian voice thick and simpering.

"Laydee Amell-"

"It's Lady Hawke, actually." Hawke's dark blue gaze narrowed and her voice held a bite of sharpness.

"Oooh yez, forgive me. Laydee Amell, does ze Prince's presence here mean that zere will be a Kirkwall influence in ze court of Starkhaven? We are all dying to know, you see?" Fenris gave a minute shake of his head, hoping Hawke would see. If she lost her temper now, with such an impertinent request, the tricky Orlesian wench would have her. As it happened, it was the prince who swooped into to rescue Hawke from an awkward explanation.

"Comtesse de Launcet, a pleasure to meet you. As to your question, Lady Hawke and I are, currently, merely very good friends." And that is how it will stay, pueros. Fenris thought, not bothering to quell the savage and yet satisfying fantasy of the surprised look on the Starkhaven interloper's face when he tore out the man's heart. Nobles could not be trusted, especially dethroned nobles scheming to get back to the top. "Now, unless I miss my mark, and I never do; you have two delightful young daughters who you'd like to introduce me to, yes?" Fenris moved to take the man's place as he steered the snitty little noblewoman away, stepping up behind Hawke and subconsciously resting a hand gently on the small of her back. Hawke turned to look at him, a hurt frown on her face.

"Amicara, ipsa nullos. Naros astuarexa." _My friend, she was nothing. Do not fret._ He murmured softly, the lyrium in his palms pricking his skin as he gave her hip a small, reassuring squeeze.

"Ego volonare exos." _I want them gone._

"Scio." _I know._ He leaned in to whisper it, as close as he dared with a roomful of nobles pretending not to watch. Hawke turned to him, her exhalation ghosting across his cheek. She grasped his fingers where they rested on her shoulder and he felt a spike of power shoot through the markings.

"Ego possa necare eos omnea sententia." _I could kill them all with a thought._ The words, whispered softly and sweetly, accompanied by that rush of magic sent a sharp twist of dread shooting through him. Magister! He jerked away so quickly several of the partygoers turned around to look at him, Hawke giving him a hurt look. Yes, mages. Physically delicate with short tempers and minds like razors. It was hard to reconcile his attraction to her with the repulsion her magic could invoke. Because she was not just threatening to kill them all, she was promising. The true horror was that she could do it. Brutally. Bloodily. Mercilessly.

Fenris turned away from Hawke's deceptively injured expression, trying to ignore the feeling of trepidation he got from turning his back on a mage, even for a second. This is Hawke, Hawke is not…Hawke would never hurt me…until it served a greater purpose. When he awoke from the ritual that Danarius had performed on him, the ritual that granted him the veins of lyrium tattooed on his skin, he'd had no memory of a life before. He still did not. His awakening, those few precious moments as he brushed flakes of drying blood from his skin, he had been a newborn. He had looked into Danarius's cold grey eyes and seen only his Master, his father. He had felt blessed(the very thought sickened him now) by the magister's regard, the man's face had been the first thing he'd seen after what had felt liked a lifetime's worth of pain as the marks were inflicted. With the newborn sense of magic, Danarius had even been beautiful. There was a…a song to which the lyrium answered. For years, he had done everything Danarius asked without question. A loyal dog obeying the man's every whim. It was not until many deaths later that he realized what he was, what a slave was. What a mage was.

A mage was the hilt of a sword, innocuous enough until you saw the length of the blade and felt the sting of it's edge. A mage was the fire in a torch or a lit candle, harmless until it's full power raged across acres of dry brush. A mage was a drop of saltwater, hardly dangerous until you were drowning in the vast coldness of a bottomless ocean. Anders, Merril, Hawke. Deadly weapons all and yet every noble in the room laughed and chattered at them obliviously, like blind lambs bleating at tigers. Fenris glanced back once over the rim of a fresh goblet of wine and caught Hawke's eye. Her blue gaze held his unwaveringly, her lips a thin, shapely line. As he watched, they curved into a hesitant smile.

Fenris turned on his heel and stormed by Leandra, heading for the door. He'd had enough socializing for tonight.


End file.
